Slowly I glide,
My wings are torn,
I can't hide,
The bitterness of this cold morn.
The winds howl as I descend,
Death and doom the gods intend,
But I'm not dying,
As deeper and deeper I am gliding.
Mist grows from curtains of shadow,
Drawn and hiding dark things,
Things not of flesh and marrow,
Their silver tongues sing.
"Come mortal, and dance with death,
We will play on the devil's heath,
And gift you with things of power,
So play and play until the beasts hour!"
**I'll probably give this a sequel, what do you think?***
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Spring is coming |
