  Written. 16. April. 2001 Goth We have dark, withered things with in us. Eerie, fetid, festering secrets, down in the jungle Where the nightmares and the hororrs play, clambering about with malicious glee. Whispers in our ears, of sweet repose and roses decayed. Gloomy dusk and sorrowful mourning and the fantasy of black lace... on sweat. Erotic funerals, for witch we dress. Musty scent of burning leaves, and clove cigarettes. A twilit world of aching grief, sublime in its crystal coldness. pale faces and black veils, all the trappings of mourning. Passion, thick, and red, and explosive- down in the darkness, the early Autumnal evening of Goth. 
