How to Write Goth Poetry

The Blackest Gift

It is a night of ethereal pain, a song of death,
wolves vent their cry. The dark one
stirs.

Fog shrouds her pale form,
an eternal desire.

Her raven hair cascades over
pale shoulders, and her
full crimson lips part slightly, to taste the
life streaming from the
pale flesh beneath
her.

Now a night of ecstasy,
I pine.

Created with help from the Goth-O-Matic Poetry Generator.

http://www.deadlounge.com/poetry/index.html