Smitten by the scent of decadence, hungering a thousand beguiles
in my cold-grave of winter shade. Listening to the teapot tinkle,
whispering to dead souls. In hiatus beneath the gravestones
through the permafrost of high back chairs. Tasting death’s chowder,
screaming a little bit louder than a choir of ghosts, with tambourines,
sauntering over the host.
Rated for Teens(13+)
Sauntering Over The Host
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Toasting deaths chowder… over the sounds of ghosts nice line. Like it
Thank you, Fia.