by Frances Bailey

Created on: June 02, 2008

There she stands,
Veiled in pitch night.
Despair in her eyes,
Of porcelain white.
Her gown of pure darkness,
Dirty and torn.
Her feet stripped bare of the slippers she'd worn.
Her hair gently flowing,
Blown about by the breeze
Her blonde locks, faded,
And thinned from disease.
She holds in one hand,
A small amulet of grey.
And slowly she moves to make it sway.
Her lips utter words,
which no one shall hear,
As she turns,
To disappear.

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