Giselle

The Pale Woman watches, standing by a tombstone.

Calm and unsmiling.

She points to a nearby epitaph.

Giselle.

I found life’s warmth so wondrous but sometimes I must weep.

When the grey air cries its frozen tears I see her all around me, blowing her kisses on the freezing wind. Snow flies and the world is dead. Frost on each tombstone, frost on the branches, rocks and trees. My sweet world is frozen.

Her eyes are cold blue flame and she watches from the wood beyond. The snow flies through the air. I never loved to court with Death but here in this winter graveyard I stand. The dead cannot speak but Death is still alive, fluttering on the breeze, robe flying past her. Her skeletal hands wrap around my neck, traveling down my body. My blood is chilled, tears stuck to my snow-bitten skin. I want to mourn but the eyes still watch me.

The Pale Woman watches, standing by a tombstone.

Calm and unsmiling.

She points to a nearby epitaph.

Giselle.

My head spins with every falling snowflake. Roses fall on the icy ground, like fresh blood on crisp white snow beside my beloved’s grave. The cold fingers touch my skin, a rape of the paranormal degree that digs into my skin. Her face floats past me and she reaches out, weeping. I want to slip inside, be cradled by the frozen soil and feel no more. She glides over the snowy carpet, a wondrous Satanic creation, far beyond  divinity. The eyes stare at my soul and tears streak down her pure pale face.

She does not speak but my blood is frozen.

She does not speak but still she weeps.

The Pale Woman watches, standing by a tombstone.

Calm and unsmiling.

She points to a nearby epitaph.

Giselle.

Image Courtesy : http://i.huffpost.com

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