Verses from Beyond the Grave (NCE 2017)

[Pav]

Seven they were, on the boundaries of a Raven's Nest,
Toiling from day to day,
In the shadow of Velvet,
They felt only the sting of hot iron.

A small pasture and field, and a forest beyond,
Where the crow-capped children learned at their father's side,
With shovel, axe, and bow,
How to keep Death away from their door.

They took up the arts, making to last,
If only until they made mind to leave,
Though such a chance would never come,
As Death's hunger finally broke its fast.

It came as disease,
Rotten and rapid, dancing in the wood,
Breaking their spirits, and flesh, all with ease,
Until the seven crumbled, leaving behind only two.

Shoulder to shoulder,
The eldest daughter,
The youngest son,
Kept Death's clutches away for a time.

[Pav]

Lingering in this World for longer,
Out of spite, out of fear,
They could not have made it much farther,
Before Death came knocking again.

She had twenty winters to her name,
And he, fourteen,
They learned how to lead life on their own,
With five graves to remind them of pain.

Autumn made way for wolf winter,
Her bow strung taut and ready,
She set off to provide what she may,
But from this journey there was little gain.

From the Realm of Death they descended,
Clad in raiments of despair,
With blades thirsting for blood,
There was new purpose at hand.

Their way south must be barred,
Their efforts, recoiled,
With what little she had, she had made this vow,
That Death will not seize His mortal coil.

[Pav]

Days turned to weeks,
And the seasons had shifted,
The arrows, depleted,
Yet she could not halt their advance.

Her boots padding through the snow,
She made way to return,
To warn,
That one piece of her soul, left at home.

At Night they descended,
Rotting, decaying flesh,
Shambling to surround her,
Through a blizzard, its winds loud and shrill.

They had her cornered,
Like prey in a trap,
A scythe, glowing red,
Stepped forward with purpose.

"Little Mouse, finally, you've faltered,
Though I always had the upper hand.
Will you suffer, or join us,
On our path to Paradise?"

She spat, and struggled with fervor,
But 'lo, it hadn't mattered,
For the scythe tore her in twain,
Her blood drained out in rivers, void of pain.

Had Death come so quickly,
She would have only scoffed,
For then she felt it, the sting, the drain,
The Red Kiss of a Vampire's love.

For a time, only darkness,
And then maddening pain,
Grief, sorrow, hate,
All coming together, as she clawed her way out of her grave.

The scythe, the Right-Hand of Death,
He leered over her in absolute glee,
A thorn in his side, a stubborn mule,
Had become his progeny.

Though her mind did not submit,
What little remained of her spirit, it vowed,
That it will tear these shackles, and be set free,
To become the Queen of the Night, of those that do not breathe.