Creeps the night, void of light, so begins

     the search of nine

     unholy delight -

Search in hope to pierce new skin, and

     fill then empty with

     mine sin.

 

In silent stealth, creapt wtih the Raven, each

     whose desires are of

     the craven -

Past cascades of Midnights darkest, even in

     these we have

     no haven.

 

To the home of princess sleeping, maiden

     virgin, could be no more

     than nine -

As here she lies now for my drinking, for

     'pon her neck 'tis where

     I'll dine.

 

And fill her lacking now with wishes, she'll

     not understand but

     much fulfill -

For she is now of the Chosen, and to

     survive must

     nightly kill.

 

Still in a sense, survive it's not, void of life in

     fact, death in

     existence -

Wandering infinite in finite pieces, from which

     there is no

     repentence.

 

Shall her spirit then be stolen, placed in a

     hole with no front, back

     or side -

And other spirits lost in time, will she with

     these forever

     reside?

 

But ah, with twilight comes the dawning, as

     the midnight has come to

     pass -

So unto the caverns of mine keeping, until

     the midnight returns,

     alas.

 

By Michael Allel Alphin, November 1, 1988.