She bleeds another’s dreams,
holding her white hands reverently to her chin,
preying in the quiet of a fallen night.
Her lips moistened with fear,
a placid grace plastered upon dead features.
No prisoners to take.
Feral; brutish breath seeking lips of stone,
the coldness returning nothing she craves,
her gravity alone shifting this spirit’s calm.
Armed with arid lies to twist a mind,
a bitter seed beneath her tongue,
her lips scrape slowly across a soul.
Passions flare and evanesce,
an eyelid’s flutter scattering shifting shapes
and love sleeps softly by.
The words set softly on her lips
still wet with blood of broken minds;
a sacrament that needs no prayer.
‘Sleep’ she says in whispered tone
and eyes fly open to twisted light.
‘Still’ she sighs in a knowing groan
and limbs sit fixed against their will.
‘Rest’ she teases through gritted teeth
and shadows swarm from gloom-lit walls.
Boredom sways, she drifts away,
infected tide breaking in a terrored night;
placid grace attending a placid fright.