Dead roses bow in the garden’s keep,
where time forgets and shadows creep,
petals once velvet, now brittle and torn,
like whispers of love that were never reborn.
A powerful rainstorm tears through the night,
cracking the sky with furious light,
it sings to the graves of what used to bloom,
and drowns every secret held deep in the gloom.
Dead roses tremble in thunder’s cry,
as the heavens weep from a broken sky,
each drop a memory, cold and unkind,
washing the echoes left behind in the mind.
Yet still they remain where no warmth can stay,
beautiful ruin that won’t decay away,
fed by the storm, both gentle and wild
a love once divine, now darkly defiled.
In a crooked cottage beneath the moon’s pale eye
I uncork a bottle where the dark dreams lie.
Not grapes from vineyards warmed by sun’s soft shine,
But midnight’s harvest, deep vampire wine.
It glows like rubies in the candle’s flame,
Whispering softly my secret name.
A sip of shadow, a taste of night,
Where ancient spirits stir and take flight.
The forest listens, the black trees sway,
While bats trace runes in the air of gray.
Each drop a spell, each breath divine,
From the velvet depths of vampire wine.
The witches gather where the veils grow thin,
With silver laughter and knowing grin.
We toast the moon and the hidden shrine,
And drink the power of vampire wine.
For in that glass the night is kept
The dreams of creatures that never slept.
And those who dare to cross that line
Will feel the magic of vampire wine.
COMMENTS
COMMENTS
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Cadrewolf2
03:36 Apr 28 2026
excellent