Alone it sits upon a tiny lonely hill, surrounded by blacked and withered grass.
Its stone is cracked and weathered with age, its roof drooping on verge of collapse.
Upon its door sits a wreath of roses, darkened with despair.
Inside its depths are blacker than black, hidden completely from view.
A cloud of shimmering mist rises upon the moor, as dark figures begin to pass.
Slowly they make their way toward the crypt, the cold air filling with dark synapse.
A body they lie inside its depths, a tangled mass of blood and hair.
They took her down, a blow to the crown, before she ever knew.
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