Across her cheeks time sketches valleys deep.

While she sheds crimson mantles lose from wear.

Off crowded saplings suddenly she snares

A silver-sheen’d adornment. Wrapped she creeps

In silence heeding sister wolves who guide

And guard her – howling warnings in the woods.

Her unseen foe attacks, drawing her blood;

The drops baptize her as death’s noble bride.

Look now her hair garlanded in wreaths of snow

Fans out sailing her ‘cross the River Styx.

With feather’d sandals she treads hellhound’s trail

To reach the River Lethe. All she knows

Is soon forgotten, drunk in her eclipse.

Fate pens her renaissance, a virgin tale.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s