She wails in the night, a harbinger of doom.
She mourns for the dead, and those who will die soon.
She roams the land, with her long and tangled hair.
She sees the fate, of every soul in her glare.
She is the banshee, the ancient spirit of Ireland.
She is the messenger, of death and sorrow’s hand.
She is the curse, of those who hear her cry.
She is the witness, of every tear and sigh.
She knows no joy, no peace, no love.
She only knows, the pain from above.
She cannot rest, she cannot die.
She only screams, until the end of time.
— s.c. hickman 2023
©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman