Clara In Ashen

Jetblack sunrise ashen, breastbone of the final dark. My priest must leave to return to his ghostly parish. Where traitors necks stretch down from moss to swamp. I met the host of my companions, caught by first dawn’s watchfire dogs, waits for his beloved no more. Oh, his Clara, I must console before chill sets too deep within bone and lung. I will guard my deathbed promise to him, for to wipe her fair brow. To finger her dark ringlets with ever my trigger torn hands. Considering myself curious to love a West Indies fleshy maid. The poked corporal would find me, on ghastly red steed to behead twice over for him, my host, and her my temptress Clara. The belle of run through young soldiers.