InAChurchyardAlone

Trembling through the cold... for night brings swift, chills, of foul mooded pine and soot, heard as exposed treasures, from the mouth of the grave. For sounds of wraiths... of horror divine, would counter mine strength, leaving doom! an infinite word. While pleasured mice, and pleasured fine, seem women soft, above november skies. As faintent hoofs, nudge,in hearts of warmth, for the earth drinks brain of the dead.