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Literature Text
the very wood is teeming with riddles,
and she the guardian, in her cloak of secrets.
hazy beings peer quizzically from between the boughs
of winter stripped alders, themselves alive and sentient.
eyes deep blue and full of a distant knowledge,
her breath smokes in the cold, still air
as she wanders the hidden paths.
poisonous blooms, nightshade and belladonna
spring up blackly beneath her steps.
her hair is ebony, threaded with skeins of white.
heavily thorned branches grow from her brow, dusted lightly with snow.
her face scarred with centuries of frost bite,
she is horrible to behold, yet so beautiful.
ice flows sluggishly through her veins, and
her touch brings a slow, cold and painless dream-like death.
she whispers to the wolves, and they lunge at her...
falling back as she transfixes them with her deranged gaze.
they snarl at one another confusedly, and she utters a sound, sending them running.
she laughs and the snow begins to swirl, thickening
all about her, a maddened dervish of crystals.
a dense purple twilight falls rapidly in this forbidden copse.
the moon rises to paint the hidden realms a shade of ephemeral blue.
she stalks the shadows, a lone mad figure, queen of the silent winter wastes.
her smile, a sickle when she discovers the bone fire, the bloodied tracks.
the spirit having just departed.
with her hazel stick she stirs the ashes,
studying the story held within the cinders.
eyes fierce with longing, she kneels beside
the sacrifice of scarlet runes upon the virgin snow.
the moon glides behind the clouds, shivering
as she begins to feed.
full dark: her fingertips crimson, her eyes now closed in ecstasy.
warm forgotten verses and the burning copper of dreams
already beginning to fade as they burst upon her ancient wintry tongue.
Sated, the wind gusts, pale throat open wide,
scattering the last of the ashes, the story spent;
as devoid of life and of meaning as her frigid white out world.
and she the guardian, in her cloak of secrets.
hazy beings peer quizzically from between the boughs
of winter stripped alders, themselves alive and sentient.
eyes deep blue and full of a distant knowledge,
her breath smokes in the cold, still air
as she wanders the hidden paths.
poisonous blooms, nightshade and belladonna
spring up blackly beneath her steps.
her hair is ebony, threaded with skeins of white.
heavily thorned branches grow from her brow, dusted lightly with snow.
her face scarred with centuries of frost bite,
she is horrible to behold, yet so beautiful.
ice flows sluggishly through her veins, and
her touch brings a slow, cold and painless dream-like death.
she whispers to the wolves, and they lunge at her...
falling back as she transfixes them with her deranged gaze.
they snarl at one another confusedly, and she utters a sound, sending them running.
she laughs and the snow begins to swirl, thickening
all about her, a maddened dervish of crystals.
a dense purple twilight falls rapidly in this forbidden copse.
the moon rises to paint the hidden realms a shade of ephemeral blue.
she stalks the shadows, a lone mad figure, queen of the silent winter wastes.
her smile, a sickle when she discovers the bone fire, the bloodied tracks.
the spirit having just departed.
with her hazel stick she stirs the ashes,
studying the story held within the cinders.
eyes fierce with longing, she kneels beside
the sacrifice of scarlet runes upon the virgin snow.
the moon glides behind the clouds, shivering
as she begins to feed.
full dark: her fingertips crimson, her eyes now closed in ecstasy.
warm forgotten verses and the burning copper of dreams
already beginning to fade as they burst upon her ancient wintry tongue.
Sated, the wind gusts, pale throat open wide,
scattering the last of the ashes, the story spent;
as devoid of life and of meaning as her frigid white out world.
Literature
Raven Queen
She walks with the dead,
skyclad in the moonlight
while dirt scatters about
her paleness. Nothing is
hidden here in this grove
of lonely despair as she
sings her song.
Feathers adorn her hair …
They come to pay homage
to her, as she twists about
in some dark and sensual
dance. Their fingers
roaming about her form
as she undulates for them.
Then, sets them out upon the land …
Her children, damned souls,
to roam about as she lays
there indolent in the silvery
light. That is when she calls
out, a whispered voice upon
the howling wind that echoes
through the trees.
To the ears of that one soul
brave enough to venture
Literature
The Lady Of The Lake
In the flickering dusk of the cold forests keep
Midst the leaves and the brush where the river runs deep
A rivulet barren as all the worlds sands
Branches off and expands
In ribands and bands
To a lake wherein which a pale maid lies asleep.
Soft gold is the hair that so limpidly flows
Round in circles that dip and as quickly compose
Into icy-tight locks by the white, leaden tips
Of her fingers and lips
And her slim, girlish hips
Bound in sodden silk swaths of frost-coloured bows.
A garland of bloomswilted snow in her grasp
Tries in vaininch by inchto withdraw from her clasp
And struggles and s
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