69 28 2

Hanging from the tattered coattails of witchcraft,

making room in her heart for evil to graft.

It began with the death of the one she cherished,

love and sympathy had solemnly perished.

She turned to witchcraft to fill the gaping void,

restriction of sanity had been destroyed.

Black magic mended her broken heart,

making way for light to depart.

She led her companions into the abyss,

allies of darkness soaked in red mist.

The death of romance had unlocked her fetish,

with sins of pleasure her skin was embellished.

Her spirit still roams the whispering forest,

of illicit desire she is a purist.

Nocturnal Lullabies (#Wattys2018 Winner)Read this story for FREE!