Down, ever come back, she's not here. A pitiful lust of the common, clawing at her, screaming, but only you can see her. She dances the pentagram ablaze, lit like the fire of hell.
Spontaneous and natural, the kundalini of the soul. Come into my parlour, the temptress red, the blood of the moon washing to cleanse of death.
The willowy silence of the grave, the sight of the new time, the tombs damp and waiting like the serpents of the earth.
Of sorrow, weeping in the battles of ghouls and laughter, run to penetrate the storm. She comes like the new death, the lost transformation, the circle of the dimension invisible. And her
Consciousness passes between rats, biting between traps, she wants it no more. Forever knowing above the height of the wind, the view of the nightshade differs, as the moon fires the path
Silent. She rides her own majesty. Quiet lucid sighing, gateway like no other, deep and dark and mystic in the lure of the ending
But as the sun dies with forever, her crown grows evermore.