In your sun I know I'll drown.
So, I rise when it goes down.
Add all my years, I am so old.
Yet, I'll never feel your cold.
Your punctured skin are signs you're dead
but that to me means I am fed.
I'll lure you in with fake romance.
The lies I'll tell, you'll take a chance.
Allaying your fears, I'll promise you years.
Then, muffled screams that no one hears.
So what you see as silver and gold
in reality, a death so cold.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Romancing the undead.
Unlikely to get pregnant,
more disemboweled in your bed.
