by Nick Gisburne
Across the street, discreet, she lives, alone,
Departs at dusk, returns before the dawn.
She saw me once and shuddered. More, a moan,
A mystery, to which my dreams are drawn.
A witch? I wonder. How can I be sure?
I never saw the look of one, the lust.
Her face is perfect, absolutely pure,
An innocence, a radiance, I trust.
I follow her, a glimmer in the gloom.
The narrow alleys, drenched in darkness, blend.
But orange, ochre, shapes and shadows, bloom.
She turns, before the flames, before the end.
Her kiss is cold. It wraps around my breath.
I know her. She is darkness. She is death.
