The fire crackled low
after the spell of wickedness
had wrought the runes
of love and war, sunken
into the depths
of what depravity we
had left before the fuel
was spent

Driven,
like vampires,
to endure the pain
of others,
becoming
the unbeloved
thorn 
in the rose

When all that was left
for us was to become
the enemy,
by a noxious brush
slashed
into the narrative
without a soul

Our fortunes rapt
and made dark by our idolatry,
like daemonic claws
purchasing blood
from the devils that we
had refused to release 
from our breast

Driven,
like vampires,
to endure
the pain
of others,
returning to
the unbeloved
thorn
in the rose

Watching her, weeping
colroful and decadent cloth,
aflutter
in the emotional dance
of fire, trapped upon
a single thin wick,
spent practicing 
the old legends
of the despair
and loneliness,
desirous of desires
that have haunted
her since she 
was a child

The same ole Satanic temptations
of being unforgiven to what others have desired,
and the rituals of seduction
become the serpent's kiss--
seduced by her own power
to become the graven image
of powerlessness in the world
when beauty becomes despised.

She is the sin-eater.

Nourished upon the unwholesome
and her nature to know
the nature mankind too well. 
There are some
that will wish to save her, 
and others to destroy her.

Her temple is in the eye of the beholder.

I am only a chronicler,
my own damnation
being to bear,
feeding upon
another creature's pain.

She is my eternity.