I cuddled up witha metaphor that wascaught in the corner ofmy room.I dressed it in thesilk of kings, and fedit from the fracturedtrees of innocence.Low-hanging fruit ofdespair gets usevery time.

Black wings that flutter through stormy sunshine. That storm within… with the sun glowing through black clouds that gathered over my eyes… Bright enough to penetrate into the dark of my soul… This storm and sun intertwined, ebony silhouette of the raven soaring through...

This sacred inner realm I keep within… Deep within. Hidden it is to the world’s judgmental, blind eyes!   Every beat of my heart is rhythmic, dark beauty. My gothic heart beats on as if it possesses the pen itself!   Every pulse from this rich...