in the pages of time

            inscribed upon the velum

            of argent skin sheer

            is her narcissistic life

            of dark immortality 

Her elegant movement of hand, infuses her script with graceful strokes of purpose. Her cantillating voice, a casting of spell; the binding of eyes to the page; to the ink, that of blood, blotted and brown; congealed to the form of her mentation. For within her script she hides deception, this siren of the page; her lines so lithe and limber with an elegance of phrase. She thrives on veneration; she feeds on your adore; for her stealth is in her stealing, the essence of your soul. She perceives the very moment, as on her script you gaze; and purloins the vacant moments, between each stanza on the page. Her words are her bewitchment, as you turn from page to page; she’ll consume your soul forever; to stay her from the grave.