The Moon, she hangs like a cruel portrait. Soft winds whisper the bidding of trees. As this tragedy starts with a shattered glass heart. And the Midnightmare trampling of dreams.
Your misery is worn as a veil. To hide bewitchment of the ugliest kind. In place of eve a bitter parody hails. Daggers from the swagger. Of a sodomite's concubine.
Foul snake despair. Where once you darkened gardens. Another coils there. Where twice you sliced all hope from me. And left these present scars. An insane love now burns above.
There hides a secret. Deeply twined inside of her mind. A tried and confined egret. That pines to fly south. To this mouth of mine. . Pity. . Too long have these emotions.
Seven brides serve me seven sins. Seven seas writhe for me. From Orient gates to R'lyeh. Abydos to Thessaly. And Sirens sing from stern. But now I cease to play.
Come distortured artists. Bitter things seek meaning. Even if they're madness to behold. Once forbears to horizons. Where the dead stayed dreaming. Now nightmares waken souls.
Spatter the stars. Douse their luminosity. With our amniotic retch. Promulgating the birth. Of another Hell on Earth. Shadows gather poisoned henna for the flesh.
The time has come. To rise again. Freedom lift thy sewered hem. Free from beasts and skewered men. . My dreams unroll. Ten thousand fold. Their world will never take me.
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Sibilant and macabre. Walpurgis sauntered in. Skies litten with five-pointed stars. The work of crafts surpassing sin. As She graced Her window ledge.
I bled on a pivotal stretch. Like a clockwork Christ. Bears sore stigmata, bored. . And as I threw Job, I drove. Myself to a martyred wretch. To see if I drew pity.
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A thousand nights once succored Me. In the shadow of Miss Anne Thropy. Sat gargoyle-limbed amid My licking flame. . A cruel tongue at work in Her secret vaults.
Her bouquets are wilted. Too long has She slept. Their cruel red mouths darkened. To bowed silhouettes. . I saw in a new moon. With Her scent on my breath.
Pour the emerald wine. Into crystal glasses. We will touch the divine. Through kissed catharsis. . Let us pitch to the seven year itch. Of the ultra-decadent.