I see her,
Walking down this lonely street where she walks.
The woman in black.
She is a weary looking woman.
Her hair is like yarn,
Aged and stringy,
Yet the color is the black of night.
As are her clothes,
She wears a long dress that brushes the ground,
So her feet are never seen,
And a thin black overcoat to protect her.
Her face is pale and well-used.
It is as the moon,
Battered and bruised over the years.
Her eyes have seen much,
And yet her destiny is to be witness forever.
She has seen thievery and mishap,
Violence and abuse,
Distress and destruction,
She has seen death.
She has seen killing.
But she does not speak of what she sees.
No one asks her,
No one thinks to ask.
And if they did she would not tell.
That is not her job.
She can but observe,
And yet people observe her.
She holds many secrets other than these.
She holds mystery in her hand and draws it close to her breast and guards it.
People try to know her.
And very little by very little they discover small things,
But never everything.
She remains forever silent.
Although the woman in black can never draw near to another,
As is her curse,
People still come to her for shelter.
They seek her for hiding.
And she provides them these.
Some look to her for peace.
Her silence can be comforting to them.
She is their escape,
From the reality of stressful life.
Yet some run away.
They know what happens,
When she walks the streets.
With her comes the dark,
The occasional evil.
And yet none of these are her doing.
She simply has bad luck.
She is always out walking at the wrong time.
And yet always at the same time,
An eternal schedule,
Set in stone.
And she continues walking,
-Barin Von Saxton