In the snow, his black hood glistens.
In the moonlight where Luna wanes,
the form of Death walks the earth.
Jet black hair--and ravens flutter high.
His beautiful form stands in the centre,
watching, waiting... observing.
The snowflakes fall gently over him
as the shadows begin to crawl forth.
Porcelain skin then shows itself,
as white as snow--contrast to my summer,
and begins the purge that night;
Luna hides innocently in the dark.
The blade that has pierced plenty
shines once more
dripping with blood.
His form fades in red clouds.
Enchanted by the spectacle, I run
down the stone stairs until I see
he who refuses to turn around;
the man with the crescent blade.
He wants my heart and I say not
for fear crawls down my spine
once I see crimson trail down
innocently with his frail fingers.
He reaches out and I try to call
to the him, the one I've known
the one with bright blue eyes,
not this scarlet red monster.
Little red riding hood
was not the victim.
He is the wolf
and I am his hunter.
YOU ARE READING
Entendre
PoetryAn expression or burst of emotions, a place of solace from suicide and depression. May be an art or a form of liberation-probably a loss of sanity driven from hungry memories; to understand and listen to the stories around us, a passion-driven delir...
