The morning has come again, snuck up as a thief

and slit our pursestrings.

     It is always this way.

The Heart of Darkness is pristinely ugly in

this graying light, my dear.

But hush, hush, sweet evening child

for morning's light is but a twinge.

 

The dusk is our birth pang,

our darkened midwife.

And we'll dance our coven dances yet.

I'll hear your voice, sweet as Gaudi wine,

and feel your footfall on the Wyrden earth

               again. Yes, again.

 

For as the night falls twice, three times, forever,

the blanket of the starless skies covers all

remorse.

 

I do not fear the silence of the night

but still my heart beats to the

time of the clock. That sweeping hand

ices my veins.

 

What is there to fear in the wicked woods? We've

known them oh so long.

     When you yourself are the nightmare

     what keeps you up?

 

The crows are cawing yet again, the

Gloriana is flat as glass. And I see

your face in the Ravenwood knots.

 

Parting bitter, parting angry, I still

feel the winter bane on my faeling flesh.

I am weak of bone but this brittle fleshy clockwork

is strong of memory.

 

The Wyrd is change and we are Wyrden.

Thus this change should not upset us so.

The evening has ended, dearest, and

we end with it, bleeding for the sun

in deference to the Night.