Poets racking absinthed brains. Could never fully paint these nights. No martyr parting from his pain. Could utter words so erudite. As those she now divulged to me.
At the very start. There were whispers in the dark. And for all the world to see. There was witchcraft at its heart. And on the autumn air. The scent of bonfires everywhere.
I am she. Lilith. Mistress of the dark. Of Sheba. First offender. And succor to demons. Whose sweet seductions and wicked rites. Lead all too enslaved by the flesh.
Church bells resounded like judgment day. As they were making love. In the rainswept graveyard. She fucked him hard, silhouetted by flame. A monsoon Tigress set upon prey.
Where does the madness end?. How far down do the rungs expire. In smoke and burning heat?. In depravity and sin?. . In her shocking retinue. I saw the worst.
On the night all mirrors fell silent. And the clocks struck accord with the rain. A storm swept in with such violence. The dead rose to complain. The stars were ill-crossed as the weather.