Letters

The pale rays of the harvest moon fall upon the fluttering curtains of the open balcony on the second floor of the massive Victorian mansion. Her flowing white dress reflects them, making her glow like a pale beacon in the dark room in which she sits. Her poise has not faded since she first assumed her pose, almost 12 hours ago. The clouds in the sky have gone on their way, but her bright blue eyes have not stopped staring at the space in the heavens, they once called their own.  A lone raven is perched on the parapet, screaming his laments, piercing the shroud of mournful silence that envelops the house.

Beautiful

Why do I think you’re beautiful?

It’s not your silky, satin dresses,

Or your curly curtain tresses,

Or the glow that gently blesses

Whichever path you tread.