![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1){kind=small}
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif?v=92.1){kind=small}
Dolor
Dolor settles on the city like a feud among the four winds, drawn to a dark and stale standstill. Her wings are wide as the walls, thin as night air, beautiful as a polished rosewood coffin. Beneath her thin-lipped smile fair knights lay down their swords to rust and maidens sleep themselves gray. Only the return of brassy, bright Passion can drive Dolor away, but Passion lies yet among the roses and rushes of a distant land wondering why the water has stained so red and where the rest of his fingers are. So the city rests without its pretty prince, and Dolor is made queen of the black shore.
