Then, bedded atop cushions of dark blood,
the blonde neck of a white woman.
The sun ravaged her hair
and licked the length of her pale thighs
and kneeled around her browner *******,
yet to be deformed by vice or birth.
Next to her lay the *****: horses’ hooves
had stamped his eyes and brow to a pulp.  He dug
two of the toes on his ***** left foot
deep into her small white ear.
She, though, lay and slept like a bride:
at the brink of happiness, of first love
as before the outbreak of a wave of Ascensions
of warm, youthful blood.
                   That is, until the blade
sank into her white throat
         and spilt an apron of dead purple blood about her waist.