She was the daughter of a blacksmith

For her heart was cold and hard

She walked with a steady pace

Close to her chest was a card

Her eyes dark and empty

For sense was lost to stone

Only in the full moon

Would she cry and moan

For when she was a babe

Her mother’s milk was sour

So elsewhere she found

Source for her power

Looking deep in the eyes

Or touch of her skin

She consumed all the fire

From friend and from kin

There was no love

In her gentle soul

Her core was black

As soot, tar and coal

In the eyes of others

She saw only fear

For she was undead

Yet they named her dear.