In my darkest hour spoke lore, not I, not I.
Fornicate the world's betrothed, but I, but I.
Extravagant thee of I be cheerful,
naething be I but fearful.
Naething be I to wonder,
as hours froze, I ponder,
“Will it be a night enchantment?
No, a night extravagant;
to be with thee a soulless knight?”
But death would follow in his spite,
as love would conquer, many and all,
as it would be the end of fall.
The stars at night twinkle upon me,
a misty pass vision of thee,
Cloaked in putrid and raw indeed,
carrying out the worldly greed.