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Image for the poem Her

Her

Long eyelashes
beautifies her intense glare.
She makes you yearn
masochistic seduction,
flirting with fear.

Her hair is black
as intensive as her long dress.
Whether dead or alive,
she is bound to impress

Her eyes gleam red,
a total mystery to one's visual essence.
But she dominates the room,
with just the smell of her presence.

Her pale skin
almost to seems to shine,
If you look at her too long,
it's said you'll become blind.

Not a smile,
from her black painted lips.
A droplet of blood,
at the curve of her mouth,
unknowing slips.

And on a throne,
she comfortingly sits.
As the crows worship their Goddess,
in darkness equal bliss.

Queen, she might be,
no one knows for sure.
It's none of her evil grand beauty,
even in village folklore.

The witch of the crows,
Queen of beast.
She is acknowledge just by "Her"
because no one knows,
who she really is.
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Written by PsychicApocalypse (Darker Half)
Published
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