The Crone Maiden.

Glassy waves shatter upon the shore.
Darkness swirling above, around and beneath.
As if pulled straight from long forgotten lore.
The pale maiden strides, silky hair tangled in a bay wreath.

Quiet, quiet, dead silence all around.
Her ears doth crave the flying gulls.
Who have forever ceased their crying sound.

She, the only creature who dares to stir.
Travels through the waters of blackest crystal.
The salt is blinding, the world a blur.
Stumbles bleeding against the bush of thistle.

She's always seeking along the horizon.
Never still yet always waiting.
Caught eternally in her own purgation.
Solitary hell, one of her own making.

Barefoot the lonely maiden trudges.
In the sand and rock and sea foam.
Until the wind it does strongly nudges.
Her from fair young maiden to weathered crone.

Milky eyes scan the vast waves still.
Heart yearning, churning, as fast as storm clouds.
Body, mind, aching for that thawing chill.
Where flowers once sprouted from greenest mounds.

And on that isolated dead land.
She'll always remain.
With wrinkled skin and shriveled hands.
When beauty once blossomed in the rain.

Trapped there always by her curse.
For casting out her heart's one desire.
The weathered maiden crone must traverse.
Without an ember of her body's fire.

Alone, always forever.
Where nothing moves.
And no sound is made.