Dearest Dirge Ravenclawe Wednesday Nyte,

  Upon the harrowed walls does the 
blood, red so dark still flow, nay you 
know not the marks upon fallen 
saints and dying angels cry, when 
yet nothing loves and nothing sorrows
now so the blood burns and passion
flies, window from truth does dive.
Can not we scanter, unsifted lust calls
upon we who have not countance,
blaze! Blaze! Call the hallowed ones
together, unholy and mouldy, tired.
Black, black, dark, oh blaze! Do not
they see the blazing pain of unbridled
lust, calling to the raven child? Do
not they care the blood? How so
they bid us no haste, bid us no love?
A dirge towards our cold throbbing 
hearts, a pox to those who poison us
so. The rot, the cemented feelings, cut
these apart and salvage the red
juicy piece who be living in our
long since fallen souls, our
frigid bodies, raising now not anything.
March on yet, and blaze!!

   Alas! Loathe always,
          
               Burgundy-Fox January Snowe.


** I guess thats like a love letter or something. I don't 
really know, I just sat down in class one day and that 
flowed out. =D.

xoxo
Kyelle