The Goth-O-Matic Poetry Generator
Dichten was nog nooit zo gemakkelijk.....
It is a night of subtlety, a song of death,
wolves vent their cry. The eternal one
stirs.
Evil shrouds her stalking form,
a timeless desire.
Her raven hair cascades over
pale shoulders, and her
full red lips part slightly, to taste the
blood streaming from the
pale flesh beneath
her.
Now a night of taking,
I weep.