The Mountains
Icicles slowly formed from the eaves,
freezing water dripped from the leaves,
Outside the weather was cold,
And the short day grew old,
the cabin grew dark,
as his candle flickered on the desk.
He slept crouched over his table,
the work left un done was under him,
his chair became unstable,
as he fell he woke and heard a ghastly hymn,
the long wailing moan,
turned him almost to stone.
Petrified his voice called out,
his lips grew cold and dry with the shout,
infront of him appeared a white mist,
the form of a woman of pure white,
a ghostly body came from the mist,
his eyes opened wide with fright.
The darkness held around her,
she hung in the air like a cloud in a dark night,
her hand extended like a lure,
fear prevented his flight,
her siren call pulled him forward,
hypnotized he moved toward her.
She pulled him in on her reel,
her body absorbed him,
he was just a secluded writer,
she was the siren of the mountain,
a wicked daemon who feasts upon,
the carless up above civilization.
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