Lady Mockery

A curve of lips in the corner of her mouth,

cuts worse than a blade.

Silver eyes glimmered with dark mirth.

She raised her sword.

The elegant moonlight,

spilling through the glass balcony doors,

shined softly on the sharp metal.

Her blood-red hair rippled like water

across her shoulders

as a laughing autumn wind danced into the room.

Flame-colored leaves swirled at the foot of his bed,

burning him in their playful dance,

their inconceivable game.

He looked back at the lady,

beautiful in her wine-dark glory,

amused at her skill with a blade.

She stood silently over his prone form,

that lovely smile on her face.

She would never use her blade,

he knew.

She didn't need to.

Her tinkling, merry laughter would be enough.

It was her power.

The dark, horrific power

that lay in sheathed knives and claws,

The delighted grins

that were reflected in pools of drying blood.

Mockery was her name,

and this was her game…

Storm Trivedi

Winter '05