#0522

Beneath cathedral moons and velvet rain, the children of obsidian roses gather. Their prayers are inked in candle smoke, their sacraments poured from silver chalices of sorrow.

Blessed be the black lace veil, the graveyard hymn, the raven’s tongue— for Gothic souls keep vigil where forgotten spirits still breathe beneath stone.

In the alabaster hush of midnight, they transmute grief into jeweled thrones, and wear the eclipse itself as a crown within the sepulcher of the holy unseen.

I guess it is what it is

Wrong place, wrong time

But I couldn't resist

Those night time white lies