Alyce Crowley


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
And I wonder...
Will I ever be sane without my absinthe?

Poem Submitted: Thursday, February 9, 2006
Poem Edited: Friday, February 24, 2006

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Comments about Absinthe by Alyce Crowley

  • Isaac Helms (5/16/2006 8:04:00 AM)

    nice poem. do you mean absinthe as in the alcahol or the hallicination of reality

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