The Witching Hour

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I run through the roses, which drip crimson from black boned thorns. Under the moonlight my lips curl. My arms ache as the thorns slice across my skin, yet the petals are silken lips against the narrow wounds. I am laughing through the unkept maze. The cries of the ignorant are behind, fire and light emanating from their torches. I remain untouched. There is no better comfort than in darkness. They can never harm me here, among the wilds and the sweetened aroma of pale roses who's thorns may cleanse away the insecurities and restraint created by man. They call me wicked; I hear nothing. 






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