The Blackest Gift

It is a night of subtlety, a song of sorrow,
wolves vent their loneliness. The ethereal one
wakens.

Curling, icy wisps of death shrouds the pale form,
a timeless dread.

The midnight hair cascades over
cold shoulders,
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

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