Around, all around, the angels gather.
My dread grows as the stroke of death falls against my naked soul.
It wounds me, and darkly my
to the swirling dust.
In my madness I cry out, Why?
While nothingness surrounds me.
Now alone, my soul falls upon darkened eyes.
This is my salvation
This was created at The Goth-O-Matic Poetry Generator
Fun try it!