Harvest of the webs embellished tapestries, draped with the trinkets of gracious winter Queens.
May the spiders soon reclaim their delicate crafts, and inject their violent poisons into my cardinal blood. My body a feast for those ice-sword fangs.
A funeral shroud of moonstone, exquisite veneer of sticky lace, anchoring down over my hollowed limbs.
Bid goodnight this wretched day, I am tired, and the venom vanquishes with haste. This tarnished crux, Death, scorn me not,
I wait with earnest for thee.