The Blackest Gift
It is a night of dark desire, a song of blood,
wolves vent their howls.
The ethereal one wakens.
Wisps of death shrouds her gaunt form,
an everlasting wanting.
Her midnight hair cascades over
pale and tragic shoulders, and her
full blood red lips part slightly,
to taste the soul streaming from the
pale flesh beneath her.
Now a night of darkness,
I thirst.
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