Rotting carcass on lover’s bed,
Gramophone hums the jazz of death.
Romantic candles cast shadows of tormented souls,
A whisper beckons, “Here we go down the rabbit hole.”
Cut into the flesh, take a bite —
Taste the blood of anguish, of spite.
This imperfect ritual extends till midnight,
Just me and her in the dying meadow of the moonlight.
Then I heard the vulture
Morbidly curious, ever so charming,
Wings stretching from heaven to hell,
Pecking at the dead, she laughs again.
“Would you like to hold my hands?” asked the vulture.
Love slips through one, while hate permeates the other.
“Hold them till death and be reborn as an undead.”
I comply, for I’m nothing but a love-drunk puppet.
Welcomed, fed, danced, and entertained,
All that’s left is to consummate upon her lonely bed.
Shrieking voice, hauntingly inviting,
Her wishes numb my knees until I’m kneeling.
The sound of a vulture, a symbol of rebirth —
Death is nigh, the voice whispers, “Lover, or deceiver?”