The Widow

[herdinator]

A shrill of light is dark
it glows like a torrid wind,
a whirl of dust
clings aside the lantern
rustic and spider webbed.

Tinted the room a glow with faintness
the widow warms by the open fire
scented nectarines
her flesh is ripe to be devoured.

The demon in her mind
laughts a roaring tide of pain,
lonliness is her's
and yet she smiles,
the black orchid that blooms
gives her hope...

the widow is in denile.

By Prince Labiel