The lonely woman is a ghost without a soul. She gave it to a handsome devil. He played with it and grew bored, tossing it aside as he walked his road to damnation. She trails behind him but is already in hell.

She left. Days pass, then weeks

Yet her ghost remains, haunting him

The echo of her sultry laughter

Grabs him by the throat

The whisper of her wicked words

Wrap around his every thought

Her phantom touch strokes him

Setting his flesh afire

From her bedroom window she watches a Halloween sunset bloom. Vivid orange and sharp reds blend with ghost caresses, but it’s the ebony darkness along the skyline that has her heart pounding and her blood racing. It’ll soon eat her alive with loneliness and longing.

She’s a Devil, Demon, and Angel all wrapped up in smiles and sins

A contradiction that’ll make your heart bleed and soar

She’s an addiction you’ll savor and dread in equal measure

You’ll feel so alive while she slowly sucks you dry

He’s patiently waiting, watching her

His molten lust almost masked

But there’s fire behind his eyes

An inferno of desires

Burning, waiting to consume

She reaches for him, needing his heat

To melt her cold heart

The owl visits each night, resting on the old oak outside my window. Hooting in the eery darkness, she asks, “who?” I tell her, “Lenore. I’m still waiting for Lenore.” The raven on the roof responses with, “Nevermore.”