This damsel is a black silk rose

her beauty’s stitched to last

for an eternity of night.  She’s always

on the run; the sun

would kill her if it could find her

she strangely fears the moon

the sick and sallow moon

it’s silver.  She will not face

the light, from guilt

not since she betrayed her side

the side of mortal day.

 

She’s very fond of blood.

It’s red.  It adds

a vivid splash of variety

to her black-white world. She likes

the way it paints itself into paper

spreads in rubied splatters; likes the way

it paints her pretty mouth staccato in

her starkasafreshnewsheetofpaper face

and the scent! the allure of life

in all its rich ardour.  She knows

it’s culturally wrong, but then again

she can’t help it

it’s chronic.

 

She still remembers what it was like

to know pain, so she is very

gentle with her takings

pierces the pulsing throat with

infinite care.  She thinks as she drinks

what a quiet way to die

two pricks and the ebb

and then you go to sleep forever

and forever in the sweet darkness

they will not have her dark fate

forever running from the light

forever seeking solace in the night.