“a poem about maleficent”
From mists to mists, the maleficent
black like scraps
of night cast down, she swoops.
She sleeps in sharp brambles,
soaking in a darker nature
waiting for her peace to pierce.
Whistles of fresh death flush
on the song of the black bird,
claws digging into her shroud.
She listens like snow under the sun,
soaking in her darker nature;
waiting for her beauty to die.