It is a night of ethereal pain, a song of dark desire,
wolves vent their loneliness. The thirsting one
rises.
Evil shrouds her gaunt form,
an impatient desire.
Her ebon hair cascades over
pale and tragic shoulders, and her
full red lips part slightly, to taste the
red tears streaming from the
pale flesh beneath
her.
Now a night of ecstasy,
I thirst.
Note: I discovered thingums called poem generators and The Goth-O-Matic is my favourite. Beauty is found in dark places. I swear it. This is the poem I generated.
To an extent this is an exacting spill of sentiments. Well carved, wonderful diction evoking a quality of solitude and that is one function of art, and poetry in particular. Even though there sparks overflow....
ReplyDeleteThe unknown intrigue me but its the way you have used words to give me a life that makes them so realistic.
ReplyDeleteDont thirst near me