The Caller

The Caller short poem

Photo by _Pek_

Maybe I’m crazy, maybe I’m sane;
Who is she that calls my name?
Day and night, night and day;
Who is she that calls my name?

A demon, a witch, a ghost, a memory;
I feel her call deep within me;
A soft whisper, a chill remains;
Who is she that calls my name?

Raven hair and hollowed eyes;
As she moves, I’m hypnotized;
Her voice smooth from her silvery tongue;
I fall to my knees, my mind is numb;

Her song it whispers, and tells me true;
A story of how she kissed the moon;
With her kiss, she stole its light;
Like she will do to me tonight;

She hovers over, embracing me;
Before my eyes, the darkness I see;
Her wicked smile, her lips they shine;
My light is gone, now hers, not mine.

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Rachel McCain

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Writing has always been my therapy. I began writing at 12 years old and never stopped. I try to write a little something each day, though somedays it is more difficult than others. I have no particular style or "formula"...I just write what I feel and go from there. When I get a touch of writer's block, I just put on some Stevie Nicks...and that gets my head back in the game. I recently published two books on Amazon and am very proud of that. Besides writing, my passions are music, reading a good book, coloring, horror movies, and good coffee.
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The Caller

The Caller short poem

After breach in tolerance one peeled truth becomes incendiary. Afraid of the known: pitched against unknown. Dying young with stiff upper lip, the grief, was not curtained enough. The malignant spread, refused to retract a name from the epitaph. Greed