Philocaly. The Love of Beauty A response to Byron

She Walks in Darkness

She hides in dreams, away from day,

that burns her flesh, a broken hope,

and all the wishes come her way

and meet her mind, she cannot cope.

So golden light that burns the day

denies her Heaven or ladder and rope.

The shades of deep and troubled eyes,

half hidden by an untamed grace

of locks of dark raven lies

reside on lips of a snow-white face.

So thoughts of fated past good-byes,

how mellow their blackened dwelling place.

And in that heart, and on that breast,

so full of soulless innocense,

the blood that's stopped, a cold caress,

much more than a coincidence.

A body cold blown from the West,

alone in her resistance.