February 13, 2012
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She came back.
Over the white road, riddled with shadows;
Over the white road, stained with sour wine;
Back to the home where a sharp wind still blows
And whispers low and memories dark
Slither from a blackened floor.
Her key, once swallowed by the river:
She looks up to the tall red door
“Is anyone at home?” she calls,
Heartbeat, like wings, the only sound
But for a soft clicking, like needles,
Or shriveled bones upon the ground.
At first, she recalls nothing
Nothing but a sharp finger pointed at her face
And the raven hair, so strange to her small eyes--
That stare; that web; that finger of fate
These images, once merely dreams
Pound loud and furiously on the door
The hungry soul, still trapped inside;
The Traveller it is calling for.
She stands and listens without fear
Yes, oh yes, she hears the cries
Recalling horrors, nearly lost
Seen long ago with innocent eyes.
Moonlight softens jagged scars
The Traveller will not flee again
From the wretch waiting inside
That ran, barefooted, in brown sand
The Traveller never peered inside
Or feared the high-pitched, haunting tones
The soul, once feared as Wind and Fire:
Dead, unmoving, blackened bones.

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