One hundred fifty years have passed
The grisly murder, life aghast
Only eighteen years old that lonesome night
Death kissed her lips, a fateful plight
~
Rumor has it, she can be seen
When the veil thins on Halloween
She's a temptress with raven hair
Possess your soul without a care
~
A bad omen, the Banshee screams
This succubus invades your dreams
Dark beauty who met her demise
Becomes a hag before your eyes
~
Ominous seduction, laced with fear
Her intentions are ever clear
Pray you wake before dawn of day
'Cause she'll take you where demons play!
DORINDA WHEELER 2017
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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