The Bell
Folklore, maybe truth, defiantly A horror of the fell on the prowl with each every ring of the destitute church’s battered bell
Passing Days
From the wisp of the spirit blood and gore whilst the raging moon licks it claw Darkness becomes light light becomes dawn passing days we will forever mourn
Seven Years
Abchanchu sneers through the blackness nature retreats from his sight For he is the dark the night the not living – With each solemn step grass dies underfoot murkiness left behind no life just the absence of all – Even the moon hides so not to be observed The apparition consumes all that catches his…
