the night fell on the lap of the dark
the flickering bulbs swayed slowly
playing with the black shadows
seemed like dancing under the mournful
composition of the midnight rain
hands, crimson red. grope at his window
screeching sounds of crooked nails
filled his chamber with terror
the hand of time started to write
elegiac stanzas
with ink bled from its finger nails
a complete mournful poetry was written
in the dark of the night
right there on his bare back
all the way through his chest
perpetuate his eternal sadness
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