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Through the tattered and torn fabric of his death robes, the Grim Reapers grotesque face peers out from the shadow, cold and unmoving with sunken eyes that have seen an eternity. The fabric of time wears thin.
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The darkness of romance, like the blackest feather torn from a bird’s wing, lays fragile tonight. We embrace within the twisting thorns of a purple rose.
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The children of the night make such sweet music and the devil has all the best songs. Wear this guitar and bats design loud and proud, heavy metal tributes don't come much finer than this.
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Lurking in the shadows, this gothic skull emerges, illuminated in the darkness from it's own brooding flame.
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Lurking in the shadows, this gothic skull emerges, illuminated in the darkness from it's own brooding flame.
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