Maiden of the Mist

Banshee on the rocks

Shrieking sonnets 

Her longing scream 

A piercing promise. 

To the last one who listens, 

Falling in due time, 

To the lowly howls poured from eyes 

Shrouded in shrill cries. 

Keening lamentations. 

Chilling tumuli. 

A warning from the maiden moon 

Floating over weeping sea. 

A gift betokened of certain death 

Mournful wailings wrought with sign,

Afore the news had spread 

On who is next to die...