Tuesday, 16 February 2016

The Last Gift

It is a night of sorrow, a song of dark desire,
wolves vent their loneliness.
The immortal one rises.

Night shrouds her brooding form,
a timeless wanting.

Her ebon hair cascades over
pale and tragic shoulders,
and her full scarlet lips part slightly,
to taste the blood streaming
from the pale flesh beneath her.

Now a night of ecstasy,
I remember her.

No comments:

Post a Comment