She stood their, weeping in her plight.
Held in the arms of a maggot angel, with
Black burnt out eyes from staring at the light.
The could immortal embrace of an empty grave,
Would be warm to the obscene, unseen, grasp of love.
Held in its arms, the maggot angel never forgave,
So belittled by the tried and tested method of failure.
The mortal whims that burnt inside the dead mans gasp.
A blood red flower, blossoming from Sartans grasp . . .

O! Sweet mistress of the night
I feel in love with Thee
The day the Heretics died
No more are we
The crucified victims
Of yet another holy fight
Our flight, naught but you and me.
Our eyes un-stitched,
My soul be-witched
Now, my dear, I can finally see!
To have our lips touch
I would give my soul for much
To revisit the four poster bed
In which we slept
In which we wept
For already 'twas the day that heretics died . . .

Truths echo from the sound of distant thunder,
But truth is nothing more than a holy mirage
Like history, manipulated, obliterated, forever
By the infected needle of the rotting fates.
We snatched her whisper from her blooded lips.
The demons truths, the Angels lies always hates.
Thoths dark fiddles play a funeral march for her,
as from the bloody chalice the silent Succubi sips.
In her arms I sleep, for ever in euphoria and darkened bliss . . .



Penned by my hand on the 12th of Scarlatan, in the year 281 AF.