- HIM, Join me in death -
Her locks were yellow as gold,
Her skin was white as leprosy,
The nightmare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.
- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner -
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| Gregory Smythe | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Let this be the grave of my heart | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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| Won't you die tonight for love? - HIM, Join me in death - |
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| Her lips where red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold, Her skin was white as leprosy, The nightmare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. - Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner - |
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| A beauteous appearance from the depth of night. Thick blond hair enshrouds his faces and falls down to over his shoulders and moves with the breeze that haunts the streets or hangs still like thick forgotten gossamer. A soft ethereal goatee and moustache mark his face, though sometimes they are bare discernible. His blue eyes deep as the sea, quiet as a still lake carry the deeper darkness of an unspoken sorrow, yet they seem to carry this gloomy mark with dignity and resolution. His corporeal form mirrors that of the statues of ancient Greek nights and the paintings of its quiet tombs. Black as midnight clouds are the clothes he is clad in. Black jeans seem to rise up to envelop him, black leather boots encase his feet a black frilly gothic blouse hangs like a funeral shroud from about his torso, and covering it all like the cloak of night is a black coat that reaches down to his ankles. A single piece of jewellery adorns him, a silver crucifix and a silver chain, gleaming in whatever light touches it. His stature is of something sinister, something eternal and ageless, and yet he may seem frail and mortal. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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