She flew about, mocking me,
She, with all her beauty,
Up the stairs with a frightful stamp of feet,
Silent as death, if I were to greet.
In the dark of the abandoned house,
She turned from lion to mouse,
She roared and wept,
She shrieked, then slept,
She scared the idle, she troubled the peaceful,
Either too empty, or too full.
She called herself the Black Angel, if angel she could be,
I reckon a ghost in guise, was she,
The demonic beauty, that ruled the place,
Death like pale, if ever asked to describe her face,
So she alone, the black angel, yes,
Laughs and weeps at her finesse,
As she flies about, mocking me,
She, with all her beauty.
( entry to the prompt of the week competition on poets of Google+ )