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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Death · #2081027
To be honest, I'm not really sure I know what I just wrote. But it flowed well in my head.
A hanging pall
With glassy fall
Calls the dead out to their ball.

A laugh, a kiss
A lovely miss
Waiting to be free of this

He swore to her
Voice soft as fur
He'd free her from this dream demure.

Across the sound
A rumbling ground
A voice to make her still heart pound.

There he stood
Dead, in a hood,
As though for her he was no good.

Fearing what?
She knows not
As she raises the cowl she feels blood clot.

The face is not
The one she sought
Or can it be that she forgot?

This dreamy veil
Makes her pale
As her corpse freezes, stiff and stale.

He did not come
Now she is done
Passing on without her love.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2081027