It is a night of subtlety, a song of sorrow,
wolves vent their loneliness. The ethereal one
Curling, icy wisps of death shrouds the pale form,
a timeless dread.
The midnight hair cascades over
blood red lips shall part,
tasting the untainted vitae streaming from
pale flesh beneath.
Now a night of new awareness,
I weep solemnly.
Ian V. Seymour ©2011