She stands, eighteen years of age, shivering
Inwardly on the edge of her mortality;
On this august night.
Her mind paralysed by the melancholic grip
Of dark decay; fuelled by the green tinge
Of a half empty bottle of absinthe.
One small step for her leads
To an elevator ride into another dimension;
An assignation with the friendly rocks below,
Which have welcomed many souls
Through this particular door of destiny.
Through the dark ages.
The soft wind sings its hymn of foreboding
And delight.
The tranquil sea accompanies the chorus of
The seductive warm wind; whispering;
'Come to us, come to us.'
The light surf kisses the rugged rocks;
And licks its cold lips in gleeful desire;
In brutal anticipation of another victim
From the world above.
