Her Ashen Kiss

She thrives in the night of dark fears,
always listening to the dread of souls.
For eons had she heard each secret
kept in the heart and held in the mind.

Of death she holds the reaper’s ashen kiss
just waiting for the opportunity
to place it on a mortal’s body
in a way that will produce the more terror.

But the grave is not the end of her power,
beneath that soil is her macabre, ghoulish realm
where she sucks spirits for her afterlife surprise.

And her mood for cruel and wicked treats
is saved for the ones who fall into her abyss
because those who truly loved and were loved
have wings to let them rise into the sky
beyond the reach of her ageless grasp.

The rest are her eternal playthings
whose maggot infest, cadaverous forms
become exposed to the joys she seeks
in ways that summon only nightmares.

Only sobs come to the wicked who weep
since there is no immortal type of sleep,
just this gift of pure agonizing torture
before sinking each year deeper
into her vomit chasms of immortal pain,
which she feast upon as her idea of ambrosia.