The Blackest Gift

It is a night of sorrow, a song of death,
wolves vent their loneliness.
The thirsting one rises.
Night shrouds her pale form,
an impatient wrath.

Her raven hair cascades over
translucent ivory shoulders, and her
full crimson lips part slightly, to taste the
life streaming from the
pale flesh beneath her.

Now a night of ecstasy,
I rise.

by Michelle Hyde

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.