It is a night of sorrow, a song of dark desire,
wolves vent their howls. The dark one
wakens.
Mist shrouds her pale form,
an everlasting wanting.
Her midnight hair cascades over
white shoulders, and her
full blood red lips part slightly, to taste the
life streaming from the
pale flesh beneath
her.
Now a night of darkness,
I pine.
By: Melissa Pope
