Thanatos broke the paradise and gave it yellow skin
but when slit, his peel hummed like an opera
just beautiful enough to make me fall in love with him:
moon set and guts gouged from death songs sung.
How his eyes are melancholy orbs, storm clouds
and his chest has not hair but scales that shed to stories,
the final sunset he found as a father in doubt
before noticing me in a scope and his son in glory.
Now he walks less ugly through esplanade and field,
singing through battles that eat him to wounds.
When he reaches me, on one knee he has kneeled:
a proposal has no purpose for us, so he passes his tune.
    Is death a mission to bristle our love?
    Thanatos, my one and only, is an angel above.