My temptress' eyes lack the smoldering heat,

Of the skies when lustfully our pale lips meet;

From her, frigid flakes revoke divine decent,

Far too baroque are her flesh and temperament;

Bleached and bloodless lay her withered waxen cheek,

a rose now broodless holds abysmal mystique;

For a pestilent taste, one could acquire,

Some hygienic paste, in spite her desires;

Bathed in charming wails, pleasures reminiscent,

Banshee's of Wales, or fruit grown indehiscent;

I've seen a goddess go, conceiving all sound,

She flaunts such modest flow, unearthing the ground;

Macabre is our passion, obsidian night,

Light and love, such fashions we vanquish from sight.