Riding the west wind,
She was a Psyche of her own kind.

There wasn’t love
waiting at her bedside:
just a misaligned bow,
baiting her past.

The masquerade begins,
As we dally together.
Past the realms of dawn –
Her abode, to the hearth of his lips,

Incoherent words,
Wound with something;
Can’t quiet place it,
This distance,

Blinded by the drought
Of her soul,
The glass shatters,
To aglow the gloom.

She is the Isle of lost souls –
Rising past the shadows.

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