The Ghost of an Echo: A Mad Collection of Mad Poet Poetry

LILITH

There is a whisper on the silver streets,

Carried with rain and rumour.

She passes by in rare glimpses––quick as sleet,

The gazes she captures never fewer.

Hair as black as a solar eclipse,

Eyes as daring as a deadly whip.

She holds her chin up like the world can burn,

Everyone knows she'll never learn.

But she doesn't care.

They crave her confidence,

Her alarming wickedness,

The way she can step past social line,

Without a blink or moral fine.

The police watch her every step,

Maybe the lipstick on her face is blood tears wept?

Or the ancient gun in her purse,

Is more than self-defence?

Eyes are pulled towards her as she passes,

A sly grin that makes hearts beat in the masses,

But reach out to her with something trilling,

And leave with something missing,

And a scar to scare those concerning.

She's a monster, she's a beast.

A brilliant light to never cease.

As terrifying and electric as a quill fish,

Her name is Lilith.

A terrible thing wrought to her when she was young,

Her cries never sung.

Turned into a symbol and object,

An evil never checked.

Without justice or mercy,

She travels this journey.

And she will get revenge.