Anita
Broken with eyes missing,
Just as two souls were kissing:
Missing spirits in search of merit.
As the wind rose up into the sky,
Circles of ice and hail formed.
Upon the whisper's scream,
In the horizon's echo:
A return to the primal.
Instinct desires them,
As the sunset's fire burns through their skin.
A token love casts a spell,
Of black magic onto the throne,
Blood-stained and lined with nails,
She sets her eyes upon his image,
Scarred into woven silk cloth.
Centuries old now;
As if for the first time,
At the feel of sunlight,
She lifted up her veil.
The moon rose up into the descending darkness.
Her eyes looked up to the starkness,
Of yesterday's possibility.
As his eyes told her goodbye,
She flashed her sharp fangs at him:
Her dark brown eyes shocked his whim.
Natural, and to effect, her platinum hair:
She was a tigress;
Who moved like a ballerina.
Grace and extravagance defined her;
The way lines cut by a blade bleed.
The sunset gave meaning to the moment;
To the plans he wasn't scheming;
Over the end he was just dreaming of,
She would wear that black fedora,
Then attend his would-be funeral.
For a decade he would hang on,
To the snow in his image.
The mirror is the sky's vain.
He took her up on an offer,
She made in vain.
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