These are the nights where the wolves are silent, and only the moon howls.
Smile and knife in her hand,Paranoia and trouble on her mind,Won't let you understand,While she stabbed you from behind.
And his orbs now looked like hurricanes, Waves crashing undeniably fast within them, Fighting the urge to let those tears fall, As she opened his veins.
And his bloodOn her porcelain skin,Runs like a carmine floodA visual sin.
He did scream. But the death of an echo only marks the birth of utter stillness.
These are the nights where the wolves are silent, and only the reaper howls.
About the Creator
L K
Yeah, I'm French.
So bear my thick accent, my very parisian expressions, and my love for wine and cheese. And if you can still comprehend whatever I've written down so far, welcome!
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