The sun did shine upon the woods,
Leaves shining with a glare so fierce.
But in those woods ’tis understood,
There's a place that even brave men fear.

And yet this child, so soft and sweet,
A maiden not yet claimed or marked,
Was daintily swept off her feet,
By the whispers pouring from the dark.

And she left her home without a word;
Ne’er to be seen or ever heard.
Under oak and elm and ash and fir,
The woods consumed her whole.

Now silver lines hung all around,
The girl caught in a web of fear;
She never once did make a sound,
But a voice did tickle in her ear.

“What is your name, child?” said the voice,
And a shudder ran through her core.
But she replied, “My name is Joyce.
I’ve told you mine, now tell me yours.”

Silk-soft fingers stroked her cheeks:
First five, then ten, and then ten more.
And at last this girl, still scared and meek,
Heard the voice say, “But of course.”

The woman came now from the shadows,
Her voice now sultry like a purr.
“It’s Seskra, dear.” she said, far too close,
As the girl’s lips locked with hers.

---

It occurred to me that I'd never actually written a poem involving, well... me. Obviously, this would not stand.

This was not actually written as poem, but as a ballad, to a tune similar to that of The Rains of Castamere. I imagine the first three verses being sung in a tavern, by a weary traveller, and the last four being sung by me in the dark of the woods.

It's good to be writing poetry again. Hell, it's good to be writing again, period. I've actually already finished writing tomorrow's and Sunday's submissions, and looking forward to what people have to say about them. Speaking of, please give any and all feedback you want. I'll never get better if people tell me I needn't.

This poem (and your soul) belong to me.