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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Biographical · #802454
A semi-autobiographical poem with traditional rhyming.
Bent forward in her swivel chair,
her pen pricking white paper,
she scribbles, fully unaware
of shadows along the wallpaper.

Misshapen beings of the dark
creep along four walls,
biding time to leave their mark
as day retreats and night falls.

Only when a chill blows through
does she lift her lowered head
to see the flame’s once golden hue
is fading, now, instead.

She gazes as the shadows play
and frolick in their space.
Knowing that she is their prey,
a smile uplifts her face.

As darkness oozes across the floor,
snaking fast toward her,
she cracks her soul’s steel door
to welcome the dreaded trav'ler.

Inside of her, the darkness baits,
testing limits, crossing lines,
tempting, toying with the Fates,
despite Their grand designs.

Although the darkness sits untouched,
she feels it pulsing in her pen
where tales and poems are clutched,
held pris'ner till they ripen.

And once the ink spills and bleeds
near the waning candlelight,
tales of dark, mischievous deeds
are what she cares to write.

© Copyright 2004 Fell Ðead the Witch Whither (fictiondiva at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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