The Black Verses
Within the mystery,
the tale of uncertainty.
A whirlwind of pain,
recurring agian.
Repeated is my death,
not caring for what is left:
blood on my window;
lust with my shadow;
eyes hidden in the bluebell;
no water with in my well.
Love not calling,
for we are mourning,
the leaving of,
our dear moth
the tale of uncertainty.
A whirlwind of pain,
recurring agian.
Repeated is my death,
not caring for what is left:
blood on my window;
lust with my shadow;
eyes hidden in the bluebell;
no water with in my well.
Love not calling,
for we are mourning,
the leaving of,
our dear moth