The traveller lingers in the shadows
endlessly seeking his prey
an empty vessel, a withered tree
the architect of chaos
obsidian eyes, shedding his skin
pain carved upon his face
promising the undeliverable
burning hopes and dreams
leaving paper flowers
slowly fading in his wake
but even a dying rose
still has her thorns
everything that touches her bleeds
her wild spirit remains
like a phoenix she rises from the ashes
her final act of self-defence
her petals have now all fallen
and her leaves are fading to dust
moonbeam beautiful
her perfume still lingers in the night
and her thorny heart
is still marked
by his blazing flames
© Ann Bagnall
Annie's Poetry 