The darkness was impromptu,
Like a shadow without an opaque object to create it,
In memory of the dreary ghosts,
Life was scarce,
Darkness so accumulating,
In a hallway of a horror,
In a mind of a person,
So mysterious,
Concluding what never was there,
Of an intelligence that never could be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
this piece holds a cirtain macabre decadence to it, brief but, in my opinion, significantly more stylistic than some of the others, give some of my work a look as well, motel crucifix and my contemptable seraphim are great pieces ~L.H.~