I used to write a lot of short stories and poems but fell out of habit once I became busy with the requirements of college and then working. Reading some fiction recently inspired me to revisit the writing of some more abstract material. It's no Edgar Allen Poe, but hopefully you enjoy it. I would be interested in any comments.
Her lips were red her skin was cold,
The soft sheets losing shape against her at every fold.
Her locks were dark and they fell free-
Shading a complexion as pale as leprosy.
The night-mare life-in-death was she,
Her limbs thin and fragile but her spirit free,
One to make a man’s blood thicken and silently plea:
“Stay one more hour before you flee”.
Even as minutes past there would be no escape
The tortured longing for one touch of her shape.
A tangible sin- a risk to take-
Fleeting passion that no waking hour could shake.
Resisting her gaze and inevitable sleep,
Slumber does not a woman’s company keep.
But her blue eyes like the ocean deep-
Holding a flooding passion that at any moment might seep.
For even one hope to hold her until dawn,
Chancing that death would take her as his pawn.
Hypnotized knowing feverish dreams would come,
And the line between love and lust become numb.
A midnight illusion soon morning brings,
Amnesia of striking beauty in darkness sings,
Perhaps another visit of the faraway moon,
Might once again recall her haunting tune.
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