She sits <br />still <br />silent <br />her mind is clear <br />not the movement of a hair. <br />her face in stone is etched but sweet <br />serene <br />deep within she finds the power <br />that comes along with midnight hour <br />and to his chamber her soul does creep <br />softly <br />gently <br />as he lies in slumber <br />and with her finger <br />she does trace the outline <br />of the beloved face <br />he stirs a little <br />then a moan <br />as her soul finds his <br />unbeknown <br />his body wakens as mind <br />still sleeps <br />and with her soul she does quench his fire <br />and once his fever has ebbed <br />she slips away <br />back to herself <br />and now upon her face <br />a smile.<br /><br />liz berg naude<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-witching-hour/
