tethered to her ivory wings

nestled in arms of a corpse

and to her lover she does sing:

a song of the white horse.

from her tower of purple pearls

she weaves her a sky of plume;

wherein distance morrow whirls

weary of the yester silver moon.

she lays upon an emarald gale

another spell to cast in bloom

for her love is now old and frail

becoming of dread, death and gloom.