"A beauty older than the grave"

When moon and grave in secret counsel meet,
She rises robed in hush and cindered air;
No pallid wraith, but crowned with embers sweet,
Her flaming red locks coiled like ritual prayer.

She is not born of time, nor bound by clay,
But elder than the stars’ first faltering light;
The Fates grow still whene’er she strays their way,
For even they must yield her sovereign right.

Her eyes—O gods—two emerald abysses burn,
All-seeing depths where past and future lie;
They promise truth for which the soul doth yearn,
Yet drown the heart that dares to answer why.

She does not chase, nor drag with brutal might,
But waits, a siren robed in velvet calm;
Desire itself betrays the mortal sight
And walks unbidden to her fatal palm.

Her beauty is a myth the brave repeat,
A sweetness laced with ever-lingering ache;
One step toward her is a kneeling at her feet,
One breath her due, one heartbeat hers to take.

So sing her not as lover, nor as bride—
She wears such masks to lure the doomed and bold;
For Death is queen, and passion is her tide,
And those who love her never leave her hold.