Arise,
My darkest fantasy of sweltering black macarbe of death.
Do you desire thee to suffer a dark and lonely misfortune of pain, of suffering, or perhapes death?
'Tis I see not one,
I see not two,
I see not three, not four, not five,
I see six,
Six tripled its fee.
Walking around the luna filled cemetary,
The blackest bouquiet of roses upon her grasp.
White robe as virgin as purity can define itself.
I look around 'pon the dead garden of graves,
The crystal moon, onyx, bedazzle her eyes.
The pulsating of my heart in fevor,
Love of morte!
Love for morte!
Loved by morte!
Oh how violently death adores us all at moments won by heaven.
Cursed by the pains of living, to only dance with the shadows that bestow us all.
Is this the death of love,
Or is it the love of death?
What fancies these eyes,
The funeral black or the funeral march?
The soft murmers of crying?
The chill that surrounds the mourning trees?
The carvings 'pon the stones?
The beauty, the creation, of this current darkness I rest so comfortably today,
Let death embrace,
Let death enter,
Let death, never be forgotten. |
Submission Name: In Desirable Rest
