A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Cupped hands stalking
The moon's bright echo,
Trapped by the lure
Of its quicksilver snake.

Pale legs walking,
The colour of death,
Slide beneath
The cold, black lake.

A ghost white gown
Hangs heavy and wet,
Weighing her down
As it clings to her breast.

Out of her mind
And soon, of her depth,
She will drink up the moon
And peacefully rest.

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