It's that old temptress, whose jet-black curls fall nearly to the floor, which lap up the purity and innocence of those around them to hang them like ornaments across their endless nebula within.
It's that same silver dress, whose splendor meets the room as when the moon first saw the sun and all else paled in its comparison.
It's that flow of a walk, a gait like a fillet knife coursing through the crowds as if they were nothing but a dry mist. And on those grey wings is she borne, slipping in and out of cognizance as only she deems fit.
It's that same silver dress, whose splendor meets the room as when the moon first saw the sun and all else paled in its comparison.
It's that flow of a walk, a gait like a fillet knife coursing through the crowds as if they were nothing but a dry mist. And on those grey wings is she borne, slipping in and out of cognizance as only she deems fit.
Taken by the arm and led astray, where the weight of your mistakes soon overwhelm your senses and you don't know for sure when exactly it was that she left your company.
As not all fallen from cliffs thought there to be no bridge before them.