There he stood outside the windowsill—waiting for the wind
to whisper in her ears, his soft call of her name
heed the faceless man, there he stood, outside the windowsill.
Her soul awakens and her hand in her chin
fresh from the bathe of her blood—there Avernus,
faceless, standing outside her chamber—waiting for the woman to fall asleep.
The faceless man than wanting to reside by her side,
softly lulling her into death, prickling her thumb with a needle of life and death
through the parallel of his world and hers—there he stood waiting for his muse.
He grows slowly and deeply, his stomach churning—savoring
her blood in his mind, he waits until she falls asleep.
Her eyes wandered through the thin port outside her room—
The trees harshly peering through her window,
It is as if, they were telling dark tales in the midnight dawn of the night.
Avernus then sang in his native tongue; his muse terrified at the sight of him—yet there was
comfort between the wind and the chilly night outside her window.
“It’s cold outside, why are you standing there?” She called out.
Here comes a new poem. :)
