Pregled posta

From the panes a green mist swirls
Is it a shadow of reflection?
This apparition in moon beams bathed
A voice like wind through trees beckons.
Cool rain on hot summer stone
The odor fills my presence,
Of freshly dug grave and death and night
These things are her essence.
Nocturnal mistress, spirit lover,
your mouth of wine and woodsmoke taste
My goddess of the violet twilight
You are lust incarnate.
In the sweat of my bed
The eastern sky hints of dawning,
Alone and awake but exhausted I lie
Oh how I hate the morning.

I hate
I hate the morning (light)

By Type 0 Negative