Alyce Crowley - Absinthe

She's pale like death or moonstars...
I wonder if she was born of dark or light?
They call her Winter...
Becuase her kiss will be your last.

And I survived and tasted another.
'Stupid girl, ' she snarled. 'I am Absinthe.'

I staggered back, dead inside,
Reeling from the reality of your
Hate
And I wonder...
Will I ever be sane without my absinthe?

Alyce Crowley

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/absinthe-2/