The Goth-O-Matic Poetry Generator

Night Ritual

Around, all around, the storm clouds gather.
My dread grows as the headsman's axe falls against my
naked soul.
It slays me, and darkly my
life's blood drips
to the thirsty earth.
In a strange and terrible glee I cry out
while Death's shadow hovers close.
Now alone, my fervent plea falls upon cold eyes.

This is because of you