Night ritual.
Around, all around, the dark memories gather. My dread grows as the headsman's axe falls against my neck. It severs me, and darkly my blood drips to the cold, uncaring tombstones. In unholy terror I flail madly while the Reaper laughs cruelly. Now alone, my blood falls upon uncaring eyes This is your love. ~Therese Anne Schmidt~ Sign in to see full entry.