banshee

what is it you really see

when first your eyes open

peering through the light

of the slowly ascending sun

falling from the mountains

to kiss warmth across

your glowing cheeks?

surely it is not me you see

leaning needfully over you

ever hopefully attendant

blending my lips to yours

it is not my face at all

but a variant thereof

unconsciously formed

know that in the sorrow

of your declining lips

there is but a specter of me

and in the mournful lines,

in the cracks of your vision

that pierce my rueful being

there is a me that is not me

in your grieving sight

am i a shadow of truth

cringing coldly in corners

fearful of the damning light

longing for the blackest night

and the harrowing cry

of the wailing bean nighe