Lilliane
She lays like the night, long black bird lashes
Cast against
Ivory white chilling skin,
Hands folded gently over the dip between her breasts,
Her weddingmourn dress pulls at
Her curves.
She is but asleep.
Asleep like the moon,
A goddess of la lune is she.
Her blood red lips lax and stark
Against such a barren landscape.
Her dusky locks spill over her
Shoulders like the Otherworld River
Pooling at her hips.
And yet she does not wake,
Even under hesitant shiver-ghost caress.
She is the night
This sleeping dryad,
This mistress of somber tenebrous. And the
Raven who but cackles at the guarding
Scarecrows. But futhermost she is the harbinger's wing
That flutters in the edges of my
Enlightenment.
