What pain it is to live and die;
to close mortal lives with mortal ends.
Recycled lives mimic their predecessors ennui,
and in the end, no one truly struggles; there is no dying cry;
Life leaves at the speed of wind; in a mundane sigh.

And then he brings with him the gentle kiss;
and that sigh passes in reverse across those lips
and extraordinary in her sin,
the ordinary breathes again.

And what blasphemy it is to breathe again
and again that final martyr's breath.
Recycled through lungs that do not open,
seeing with eyes that do not close, though wept
in tears of delicious blood and ***** unearned sweat.

She cries those tears of blood, and they fall to her mouth.
And she screams, but no sound can be heard coming out.
And she writhes, and he holds her in his arms with such tender love.
And she lives her stolen life in a dance macabre and barren of
that ordinarity; that beautiful mundane comfort that brought her such redoubt.

And he holds her, sharing in her pain and loss.
He knows the worth of a life long past its expiration date.
But he cannot condone himself to suffer alone on his lonely cross,
so he kisses her again, sharing that martyr'd gift, hoping his hunger will sate.
But it never is.

So they continue their dance, and give all they can give.
And they share in their duality; the finality of their lonely breath.
He aches for the piety of a life unlived;
She weeps for a visit from an angel of death.