THE LADY IN BLACK

Stealthy visitor
She creeps in,
Bringing the sands of memories
Flanking her.
Like a breeze she is
Wanting to turn volatile,
She hisses , a threat nobody heeds.
She pleads for someone to push her down
Before the revolt of her soul begins.

The Wind,
She is never seen
As she journeys in her black veil
Of unfathomable,
Bringing us back into a haunted house
Of graying thoughts and intensities,
Deflecting like a waning moon
In its scales of shine.

She brushes her long hands
Against further forlorn faces,
Her talons combing our bosoms
To split, to fragments
To carry bits into the strangest of lands.

Like wanton women, like kites without a thread
The birds, they swoop, dip and soar
Never owning to fly now
Only to mimick those blue silly plastic covers,
Sans aim, sans route,
Sans work, sans divine.

The clouds are her conspirators
Flowing like a viscous river,
Waters of turbidity,
Time of a provoked mob.
They ambush the sun
Away from his children
Jeering at a heavy loss.

With a passing light gone
Our hearts are dark again,
Bitter memories of us
The self, the clown,
The one that could have been.
Unforgiving every prayer,
Trying to peer through the brakish waters
Our face still covered with slime.

And this is what she does to us
The lady in tattered black.
Tempting, she is
Sinful, a bucket full of
Yet we surrender to that
Voice from a distance
Sultriness,
Voice from within
Whimpering,
With nothing but a few measures
Of crippled honesty.