Arthur Crow

Lucine stood wreathed in winter’s scorn… her porcelain gaze steeped in centuries of silvern mists and unhallow'd vows.

O’er fallen citadels and vistas of deep sanguine, Immortals covet the secrets of winter’s somber kiss Their undead souls drift in a nightly theater, like plumes of obsidian comatose in a savag’d sky Hallowed are the ones kindled from an ancient dusk, forever betroth’d to nightscapes of windswept voices And the blood of ghosts lingers in the debris of time; among pyres of dreams burning in a lover’s hymn For we are vampires lost in the timbre of ash & snow, haunted by the song of ravens in the cold dark squall

Arthur Crow © 2024

How purple the night rage on the horizon! The glozed trees stand thick understory of litten shades, in a prelude of antediluvian sorcery