It is a night of ethereal pain, a song of dark desire,
wolves vent their loneliness.
The beautiful one awakens.
Night shrouds her brooding form,
a timeless wanting.
Her midnight hair cascades over
translucent ivory shoulders, and her
full scarlet lips part slightly, to taste the
life streaming from the
pale flesh beneath
Now a night of new awareness,
I remember her.
Ian V. Seymour ©2011