She jumps through the whisper
of the wind
To harvest their sweet blood, to
ammend
The loathsome world, and to ascend
In the world with no sheen—a fiend.

Cursed by the painters, and earthlings
For debacles are what she brings.
She lifts herself through the
mutterings
Even when she's shattered in her
beings.

She, who sheens no light at fight,
Has been mistaken as benighted.
She carries not the death of a dead;
She's an art who's known the shadow
of a knight.