Griffin Hodge

November 26, 2007
By
She always came at dusk, never sooner,
I knew the sound of her step and the oscillation of her voice.
She lived at the end of the country lane,
where the trees began to weave together in a deep, dense forest.
She would ask for a ride with shifting eyes;
a smile would quickly appear and then slowly fade to a thin line.
Seven minutes of the sweetest silence was all it took for my twisted heart to melt.
The Lady of my carriage -
the keeper of my soul.
Never could I have her hand to hold,
her fingers to gently stroke.
She came at dusk the night of Hallow's Eve
wearing an elegant scarlet gown.
This was the night I would make her mine.
Her blood was the same striking crimson as the hue of her gown.
My hands were stained with her once precious life -
her delicate wrist severed.
I now have her hand to hold for eternity.
And I drive my carriage into the reticent night.





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