The Banshee

She sits on a stone wall, combing her hair;

Humming a tune old as time, 

Familiar, yet no one knows it

Old and frail or young and beautiful

She is never the same twice

The teeth of her bone comb rake through her coarse hair, 

Pulling and pulling

Interupted only when approached or taunted

She stops, stares

Straight through you


Until her blood curdling shriek cuts through you like a knife

The Irishman walks home, pale, and counts his days


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