• smithswords101 19w


    The delicate trill of a moth's scream
    Tells me the witching hour is near.
    You shall dance at the foot of my bed,
    Your hair shall mingle with mine.
    We do not need the quiet of the woods
    Nor the quiet of the night
    Quiet is the fawn among the reeds
    We are things of teeth
    That gleam in the moonlight