The Widow
When the night's darkest and silence rings,
You shall hear her cries like the call of a siren.
She begs for mercy, for a shred of humanity,
Her lover's life at a sword's tip.
Her childlike voice and sweet fragrance,
Carried by the winds over the still lakes.
Her sobs stop with a heart lurching start,
Followed by piercing wails of a widow.
They morph into guttural screams,
Rattling the souls of every man around.
The winds pick up,
The moon hides behind the clouds,
As terror sweeps through the house,
Gloom looms the halls as men scream in fear.
I hold my breath as a shadow pauses outside the door,
The man in my bed shaking violently in dread.
The door creakes open,
And there she stands - half horrific, half entrancing.
The faintest smile stretches her face,
Eyes transfixed on my lover - her white dress stained red.
She traces his face with a lone pale finger,
Before digging them deep into his eyes.
His bellows bounce off the walls,
Till they stop with his beating heart.
I call after her - my voice scratched raw,
Why leave me? Take me too!
Her eyes land on me - holding me captive,
As her sweet voice washes over me like ice.
No man shall know life,
No woman shall meet death a wedded wife.
For centuries hence, I shed tears for my beloved,
Thus shall ye till thou meet thy deathbed.
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