untitled
It is a night of ethereal pain, a song of blood,
wolves vent their howls. The eternal one
rises.
Mist shrouds her gaunt form,
an impatient dread.
Her raven hair cascades over
pale and tragic shoulders, and her
full really very deeply crimson lips part slightly, to taste the
darkness streaming from the
pale flesh beneath
her.
Now a night of ecstasy,
I thirst.
---Goth-o-matic poetry generator, click image
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home