Death's the prettiest form of love,
Eternal, quiet and forever alone.

No doubt still lingers, no unsure thoughts,
No insecurities of the skin or ****** flaws.

The warming embrace of death's cold hands,
Like the running of blood on the thick of the scalp.

The reaper's love is equally shared,
Between the prettiest madden and the toad faced fille de joie.

It's the eternal lure, the poet's device,
To ensure the pit stays, full of life. (metaphorically)

The silence is binding, and temptingly so,
For love is purest without any words.