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    She loved mysteries so much that she became one.
    from a figment of your imagination.
    Joined dxpnet on January 21, 2013.
    Place the mask upon thy face, carefully tucking in any wandering wisps, neatly so.
    Flings around her shoulders, the veil which cloaks, all.
    The Lady rides on forward, with faith in her heart, and might upon her will.
    Divided as halves- on her black steed, her white-winged self soars, flying on above, in grace.
    With winds now bellowing, lifting her hair here and there as it passes.
    As if fingers were, but stroking it- deliberate understanding.
    She embarks forth, like thus a dark figure into oblivion.
    Never looking back not even but once, for this is she, her own strength.
    She is the mistress of death. A sword she consistently wields, in peace and war.
    It is a solitary journey, to be re-born, as dragons and phoenixes do.

    Watch that fleeting smile, that careful gaze, the tender caress of her hands, and relish it, blink not, for next you turn your head, she will be but gone.

    Veiled thus in black, mourning for losses that were, that have been, that will be.
    For this is the cycle, we must all embark on.
    Fated as it is so.

    Now, she turns toward the uncertain future.
    Her lips momentarily part.
    For a moment, a brief moment, you see her hands shake, upon her reigns.
    Her chest rise and fall, to the rhythm of a foreign melody, severed.
    A shining glistening...
    tear-drop...
    falls...
    .
    .
    .


    Will you ever forgive me?



    Gone.