The taste and flavor of Nightshade, Hellbane and

The sad song of a weeping willow hangs

Drearily overhead, like a decaying overcast skyline

The voluptuous shape of The Messenger,

The Bringer, the Harbinger of Shades and Daemons

Lie now in the bow of my bed, begging me to take it, to come into it

And welcome it with open arms

                  The rain pours, like the tears of a Thousand Angels, weeping for a soul

The Lost Soul, which flees the dying and the dead

Only to become it

The Hands of The Fates yearn now for me

Crying for me to take it in the moment

Laying now before me, upon my living room sofa,

With the invitation for more…

                      The winds carry The Cry of The Living Dead

Sounding the chance of no resurrection,

But giving the voice of Condemnation

For hating oneself for doing what is natural

Now I see the form, a woman

Who yearns for me, yet scorns me a like a life, a child

Unwanted, and known to be unloved

Hoping I will be drawn up

Like the Black Widow, she hopes to ensnare me

I hope to be ensnared

For it will be my escape, to the Shadows beyond

The Here and The Now

Far from the Clutches of Death

And out of The Sight of Heaven

To live as I was, before and after

As a spirit of the Shadow

A creature misunderstood