I’ve heard it said that a woman should never be afraid of her own life. Yet I am. Every day the crowd multiplies. I grow old. The room grows smaller. Am I to be buried alive? Not with grave dirt, but with ghosts. The more confined I, the more rampant they. What diabolical art is this, that the dead suck life out of those they abhor? My nights are theirs to engorge upon in hopeless pain, my days spit out remnants of their celebration. For as vines strangle and overgrown briars encroach, my ghosts encircle me. And I am afraid.
Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt. Eugi asks us to use any variation on the word prompt (“celebration”).
In the sky through the clouds you can see silver haze Dispersed like the sheen of a dragon of steel Look too long and you’ll swear that your gaze Is returned and the dragon above sees its prey.
Do not run, do not hide, or you’ll be her next meal Say charms, not too loud, dance a jig, maybe two If the fear in your eyes, it can see, it can feel Then no magic on earth can save you or save me
As she comes, whisper soft, murmur tales of lost love Spin dreams of a land where a knight stays true blue Melt her heart, let her eyes fill with tears, and above Your bent head she will breathe not her fire, but her cheer.
Then your heart it will swell, you will ask all you will, Deep lore of the earth, wondrous songs of the sea All to you she’ll impart, from her lips it will spill Then she’ll fly to her lair over clouds over moons.
BJÖRN RUDBERG at dVerse challenges us today to write our verse in Anapestic Tetrameter, and so I’ve attempted, with a dropped syllable in each quatrain’s second line. See more dVerse offering and join in by clicking on Mr. Linky.