A thirst for unraveled innocence,
Drift in auburn fields of Ophelia's secrets,
Locked for a frail spirit to comprise,
She speaks in twisted tongues,
Calling you in a labyrinths rhyme.
Devotedly she feels the winter edge,
Razor sharp the wind blows,
Icicle fingers drag across silky flesh.
Waking the inner ghost of midnight.
A wolfs cry haunts her dreams,
Intangible but so clear,
Fragrant with poison frailty,
She breaths each fiber intensely,
Making an elixir for the forbidden fruit to taste.
In her world, Her memories conjure the ghosts,
Perfectly molded for her ballet,
They dance in sculpted gowns,
Silver and gold they reflect the moonlights gaze,
A masquerade of broken silhouettes,
Softly whispering, darkness;
A vibrant waltz for the dead,
March in silent footsteps.
©Ashley Leslie 2013
