Abigail Williams

You call from the shadows
And curse my blood in the wind
You speak in riddles
The substance which is chipping away
At the garden so balefully
I will hunt you
And even your god can't save you
When the wind blows
A mourning morning whispers serenity
There's none to be had
I will curse the very soil you walk
Until you drown in your own shame
And feel the sweet kiss of death across your cold skin
Under the pale horned moon
Their blood is stricken and cursed to the outer hills