Torture Of The Night

18 8 6
                                    

Silent whispers 

scratch the darkness

tearing summer warmth

chilling your marrow

painting evil across the night.

Shadow motes

lost in the blackness

dance across your vision

leading your thoughts

scarring your heart with fear.

Seconds mature 

hours lie heavy in your hands

smell the spectre breath 

the grave must 

the slow decay of midnight.

Waiting 

darkness

silence

fear 

and then 

the Dawn!



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