OLD HABITS DIE HARD:

She garbed in ancient church-bells, ivy & bat-wings,

 Obsidian eyed & her lips painted purple of bee stings,

She sung the songs of monks, echoing off abbey walls,

Traipsing ancient steps, leaving shadows on convent walls.

 

From life to death, then back again, on spider web, she spun,

Betwixt the vortex of nothingness & spinning of brilliant sun,

Perusing the ancient scripts, of her slumbering old tombstones,

Many pasts now buried, beneath old moons & crumbling bones.

 

“Why do old habits die hard?” She prayed, asking all her old Gods,

One minute I´m beneath blue skies & the next beneath murky sod,

“Where on earth am I?” She whispered, within rank raven´s breath,

“Am I now living on earth, or is this now finally my eternal death?”