An Undead Work Of Art

Raven '03

{ Spiken oodi Drusillalle. }

Like moonlight caressing her skin
Pale, as the snow on the ground
Like thousands of raindrops from heaven
The blood she shed pours down

If God could make a sculpture
Would it be made out of glass?
Breakable, like her delicate figure
But most divine, oh most divine

Cause if she was a painting
Even Michelangelo would cry
Something too heavenly to exist
Yet something too deadly to describe

Every thought like a pearl
Polished, unique in her brain
What is the meaning for it all to have a meaning?
Sometimes the fairest
Are the insane

Oh sweet darkness
Colliding with something so pure
Graceful features hiding from sunlight
Her face of evil greeting the night

If my loved one was a scripture
Reading her would mean one’s death
Passion for terror, taste for fear
In the heart of darkness, she made her bed

What is the beauty in a sunset
If not the final blood-red line
The one that’s drawn to the horizon
Making the rain look like wine

And yet more fair than all the sunsets
Is this black beauty of a woman
A creature so impure she’s a decease
A plague brought upon the land of man

Eyes like needles, mirrors to the soul
But she’s so empty inside
And yet what is a soul, if not a burden?
Without it, she’ll be undenied.

If my salvation was poetry
Not a verse would do her justice
Not a single rhyme would be enough
To describe all that is her

Words written with blood
Phrases capturing the uncaptured
No artist, no poet, no god
Could ever create such a masterpiece

A darkness too dark to rival
A taste for blood too deep to bind
If she wanted she could be so evil

If only she hadn’t lost her mind…