The Gothic Palace

The Essence of Death

A wind which carries the BitterSweet scent of Death Blows across a field,
A Field stricken by the perfectly entombed graves of lives which once gave yield,

The Skies are mercilessly grim and show no sings of the sun's rays,
Save the glow of a cloud covered moon struggling against evil's ways,

But at the very centre of this world of lifelessness, Darkness and Despair,
Lies a pool of Blood as black as the Bed of roses above it gathered by the air,

Upon these roses of thorns of iron lies the virgin whose life flows beneath her,
Her pale naked body is as still as her eyes which carry the pain of a greater,

A greater person who once knew no mercy yet hung to life with hands of pain,
Hands of outstretched arms now pale with death asking only never to be sent to this world again,

She is pressed firmly onto a bed of softness and thorns resting almost sweetly into her skin,
And a hundred drops of blood every second feeds the corrupted ground of sin,

Her energy is spent and her eyes hold a longing for death to take her soul,
She begs to leave a world, which never gave save that which she stole,

Stolen is the hapiness - Now memories, which are bitter in this horrid lasting moment,
Her body quivers slightly as pain swells within her sweet heart as if by a torrent,

A crimson tear falls from her weary eye leaving a path to be followed,

Followed by the fresh tears which all fall from her beautiful face to be swallowed,
For as these tears leave her smooth skin they are blackened by the hell spawned earth,

A flash brightens the sky for but a moment and to rain is given birth,
Beautful rain drops which carry the crimson fire of her tears all fall,
They fall to the daughter of sorrow caressing her whole body - her all,

She is too weak to shield herself from her own pain - her own blood,
And can only close her sweet eyes which she would keep open if she could,

She cries bitterly as she thinks - as tiny streams remind her of her body,
A beautiful body which has never been touched save by the rain's own rhapsody,

Her blood-drebched log black hair gives way to the flow of the rain,
As it sweeps across her lips, her breasts, her bosom, and tries to take her pain,

Not even the thorns can harm her now as her back ceases to return the weight of its crucible,
An her body can no longer feel the drops of blood - for a moment she is invincible,

A cry escapes her lips - a cry of sorrow, which tears through the merciless soul that is this place,
And she offers her ill-treated soul to the dark unkown in hopes of merciful grace.

"Lord of Shadows"

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