banshee

You are not alone in this sorrow,
Beneath the same shroud
I also lie…
Embalmed
The Black Raven….the vulture of all souls:
Has pecked my eyes,
And the furrows of blood
That trace down onto my lips,
Taste …of you.
That veiled woman of death,
The Banshee…The She Wolf of my tribe –
Will not sing my death song;
But turns towards me
And wails into my ears,
This unending curse of the betrayal.
And still I cannot die!
Many demons tear my flesh,
Break my bones,
In an unfruitful search for my soul;
They do not know,
That it has always been hidden,
Somewhere in yours.
Never were my words untrue;
Each was chosen from the veins of my heart,
And woven with strands of your hair;
The furnace that welded our souls still burns,
And I for one will not extinguish the light –
Even with your tears.
For what seems dead, and has no flame,
In the darkness of the night;
I see through these bloodied eyes,
The embers beneath the ash;
Still glow.
Perhaps brighter from the wind
Which blow the bellows of the storm.
I wish to die in battle,
Before I am eaten by the wolves.

© (Löst Viking) (May) 2015) John Anthony Fingleton

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