sparkbearer

Behold, the night born of a whim. A certain fancy holds Attaches with the string of stars Unleashing ambers, liquids, golds. Sit close by her, voices deep The whisper of a thrill amongst Unknowing crowds of knowing masks A pleasant rush from lips that drunk. Not hours next would truth be told Or paper minds left to decay The creases deep with blood to fold On this night, a lie betrays. Her head upon the dock does rest And all the atropine now fades The moon alights a deadpool blue So to the ground will be her grave. The soft and desperate plea alights And demons snare the bleeding soul. A murmured fall of dying flocks That