The horse and its rider are gone.
Who will hold her now.
The blackened waves gather around bubbling and foaming around her pale form.
Her blue veins glisten in the misting moonlight.
There is none but death to hold her raven hair back as she dwindles into the shadows that eat her alive.
Misery keeps no company but unnamed desires, watching all with a vomitous green eye jetting with blindness over its prey.
Foul breathing of tourmil slithers around the ankles, pulling down into early graves those most vulnerable.
Its burning touch grapples their mouth and throttles their throats towards its abysmal holding headfirst, backwards.
Their ribs hollowing of all feeling things like colonies of incaps decaying and sloshing away from their formal glory.
And so she escapes not the whispers and falling of her own soul for there was no more anyone to hold her.
