She walked the moonlit caves
In dreams trudging on reality
Her ethereal glow recast in lakes
Overflowed with the blood of royalty
Her hair blew in the wisps of dusk
Her silhouette verisimilitude
She foretold of the shadows to come
Of broken souls and disloyal truths
Her heart longed for the pieces of her soul
Lost in the multitude
Of barren lies and unkept promises
As she embraced her cold solitude
How appearances deceive and disguises reveal
The shaken faith in our forgotten homes
As we leave the comfort of kind
In fernweh of buried bones
Time had bred cobwebs
Around her hearts desires
What once was comfort
Now had her mind mired
She willed to break free
From the wraiths of dead humanity
But the fog of her wailing self
Couldn’t raise her from the books credibility
And so, pens bled feverishly
To keep her torn soul alive
Writers lost in trance
Blind that her spirit had long died
She walked undead on moonlit terrains
And drowned in lakes again
But the Sylph couldn’t be brought to life
Once she had died in her artist’s eyes
