Many have lived here through the years,
marking centuries of generations,
making obscene amounts of wealth.
And there were times such as now,
when evening clouds harvest the shadows
from the ground,
and blood runs in red rivulets
between the well laid stones.
You wouldn’t know this to look at it.
The lamps provide solace and comfort
from the gloom,
but when the fiends accost you
their faces are no longer hidden,
and your life is no longer yours.
Over the years they planted the lilacs
so the coppery scent of life
was as masked as the fiends that crave it.
Screams were seldom heard,
and just as suddenly silenced.
Pleas to be spared went unheeded
and echoed through the streets that trapped
prey with its charm, then gave it over
to things best left in gloom and darkness,
not soft lights and pretty scents.
Leave now before the evening stars appear,
before you slowly dissipate into the
unclean afterlife that snares you with its perfume,
and leaves you to rot.
BlackQuill 