My poem

"Soft are the boney fingers of death- tapping gently as rain upon the window pane, soft as an evening whisper.

Darker now are his midnight promises- but one such as I sees only the finest of reverie, O! Sleep become peace beneath his furled wings.

Neither doubt -nor deceit Bear dominion within his temple, his house that is my brittle bones -his kiss that is the wine of Hel, his shadow my blanket from the sun's cruel glow...and I think, gentle is the rotting heart of death- patient are those withered lips."

                                                 -"His Love of Death" H.V. Moreau

((Thank you to anyone who appreciates this trash lol))

||Decided to add another segment||

"Spectral yearning glistens softly upon my restless bones- the phantom pain of nostalgia prickles nerves like a heartwood thicket, and from these thorns- the memory of compassion almost seems like a missing limb, its agony a far cry from yesterday..."

      -"Heartwood Longing" H.V. Moreau