Figure stretched over the span.
Wilderness quills for the icy band.
One victim becomes one throe.
Pieces of scarlet will bring them to this low.
Gifted night with the sight, remember the light that is beseeched to their thrills that kills them to its rifted might.
No more center. There is one that strolls in the towns, the cemeteries, the motor streets, and the howls of animals that are afraid of their band, the band of the night span that is casted in the night, never to see morning anymore for their right that is just for their prey.
They become nature in spore, killing spans that thrill them to their core. One becomes three and three becomes more. They are not invited through the door of the living that knows nothing of their wills, pondering of the caucuses that knows nothing of their will.
Is that the sound of pain screaming through the closed door, the cries of bloodletting through the skin they pierce so?
The sleep knows not. The sleep they cannot contend to the night when the night clan rolls through the town, casting their gift of evil for the ones that stroll out too late for their sake.
How long one knows, they thrill to the questions that are never answered as the bell tolls at the house that holds all living things at midnight for living names that are printed on sources.
Whom these names are the ones that are garnished over the moon that beams so high, were the perilous will become the peril and the innocence will become the guilt of murder in the development over the night.
Where the lines go, no one knows. The planets still revolve around the sun and the moons still keep the planets in orbit. The sect of the night band came from the forested regions in some parts of the world that others do not know.
They are not invited and so not you. That doesn't matter to what becomes when they bleed you through. The living know the death but what are they to do when they drop a blind eye from the existence they cannot see. The others laugh in the night for the living that is getting less lived and more dead.
The dance of the dead is commenced when the night will become nightmares in hence. The battle is silence as the window screech open for the end to welcome through. They come to feed over you if you are not careful. They will watch as you sleep, deep in the noise that you keep.
Be careful; for the world is ill-gifted upon dead and the world is dead within itself when they have won, when they have won in the war of the silence as it wins forevermore to infinite bliss with hell walking a path as the living light burns out.
Where to go from here? Where is this dawn as they submit in hiding where the shadows keep them at bay? They know as they exist. They know, and either does the living that do not know as the night band lives forever, marrying on with their plague of death as they kiss the living on the next night in a combination of warm and cold bonds. They kiss as it is the kiss of death as they swallow to live with the sigh that is pondered in subtle murder, the murder that is emitted in a canto in death.
When they bow, they bow as they dub thee living no more by the ones that walk the night with fire in their eyes and the taste of crimson upon their lips. It is the taste of nectar, such sweet nectar.
The night band rolls on. Where do they roll to next?