My first attempt at Rhythmic Prose.
Darkness Becomes Her
Often times, the night is shunned. Darkness, pure black and lifeless, seems cold when compared to the light of day. But I know one who darkness becomes.
She speaks in a way that causes dead leaves on trees to tremble, their raspy voices reminiscing of fertile glory days when everything was bright and vibrant. But her breath, sighing sleepless slumber, promises of things to come.
Listen and it will be your end too. Hear her words and know true beauty. She speaks no lies, death, her one true conviction. She will take you places you have only ever imagined in your most secret dreams. Take her hand.
Follow her, most beautiful woman of the night, and know pure bliss. For darkness becomes her. She will take you there.