The icy moon above spilled light upon
Her skin of porcelain and lips of wine.
Her lavish locks of raven hair were drawn
Away in haste as she now searched her shrine
For signs of doom, yet they were quickly gone.
Her consecrated tools of such great power—
The chalice, wand, athame, and pentacle—
All failed the Sorceress in this late hour;
Anthropomancy, too, a spectacle
Even among grave robbers, had gone sour.
A horrid yet a fleeting glimpse of sights
Of burning reds aroused her from her sleep.
Remnants of it beplagued her like sharp bites
As on cold stones she hastened through her keep.
The phantom flames all vanished with a look;
Screams echoed down the empty corridors.
As she approached her dark, ensanguined book,
The fragments of the fleeting sight she bore
All disappeared; the text all blood had shook.
She scribed what little she remembered, yet
Her memories had vanished like stray wisps
Of mist that trailed away from dawn’s dim threat
Of daylight warmth, which cut the clear night’s crisp.
She stared upon her amethyst volume,
She stared upon her amethyst volume,
At such a loss as to what more to do.
It was not meant for her to see this doom—
Perhaps the Reaper would collect his due. . . .
art by Jason Barnett
Click Below to read the final poem in the
Dream & Reality issue of
the FREEZINE of
Fantasy and Science
Fiction
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