I called your name into the autumn night’s breeze under the full moon.
Leaning against a maple tree I pray you harken to these beckons.
Let love withstand the prison of death, for my heart dies without your answer.
Steadfast, my love, while the soucriants become an incubus during your witching hour–
I am lost in my own Hell.
My soul torn asunder by the bruits of your fair queen.
She, a vagrant of dreams, knowing nothing of white laced virtues and purple ribbons.
I am drug to the Shambles and inhale the acrid odor of Death–
Your hazel eyes are my last view in the darkness
And your voice a melodic glim in my sepulchre.