Mistress of Death
As the wind whips the frenzied trees, and the werewolf calls
At the moonlight hour as world is cast with darkness, long after the sun did fall
She materialises from the mist, firstly her figure, hidden under the black veil that is wrapped around her tight
Her features start to show, her skin so soft, so milky white
Her perfectly rounded nose, her mouth so simple, expressionless, un-readable
Lastly her eyes, deep and alluring, with beauty so unbelievable
Your crow black hair shimmers like silk in the cold night wind, framing your face
You glide around your home of headstones and graves, with elegance and grace
As she wonders the cemetery, she begins to get a following
Of ghosts and spirits from the graves, they talk amongst themselves, whispering and bellowing
Tears of joy run down her face, because another one has died
But her face gets streaked with blood, for blood is her tears, many tears she’s cried
But once then moon starts to fall, she will vanish into the mist, till night will return again
Each night this is her ritual, reason for being, but once the world has died out, what will happen then
She’ll roam the world alone with her tears of blood and cold, slow breath
Forever she is wonderer of the cemetery, Mistress of death