The Black Owl

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Never Were

This is the last transformation,

My words are seen not by the light,

An angel of the dark taking flight,

The frostbite,

So bitter and cold,

The image is within temptation,

A reckless rite,

Magic of old.

The sights of signing sirens,

The sweet scent of saffron,

The disgusting decay of death,

The dirty depths of depravity.

The witch’s hour awaits the incantation,

My words inciting a dark blight,

A shadow of steering shipwrights,

The frostbite,

So bitter and cold,

The surreal image is only a sensation,

A festering bite,

Life is sold.

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