Lenore

The black swan in the white water she lost her shoes on a misty moor and ever since she floats rather than tip-toes over hill, over dale, she does wander everywhere. The whisper of her soul hangs like a fog around too moist eyes, never marred by words but often broken by sighs and sobs and deeply felt moans she was born through the crack in the heart of the world, pushed out by fire, the burning soon reduced to steam and wind and quiet.

She will speak, but you must listen closely. And listen carefully lest she screams.

You will not be seduced by her.

You will love her deeply if you notice her at all.