The Dandy of the Sepulchre
Hair dark as his soul
Eyes bright as his knife
Does he kill simply for pleasure?
Or does he hate to end a life?
He cares for very little,
Except maybe his appearance.
Fine hats, warm coats, leathers gloves
And canes with handles of brass.
These are the trappings of his well-dressed existence
Who is this wraith?
This finely garbed ghoul?
A man of the people,
But in the darkest sort of way.
To him, fear and respect are what
Bread and water are to others
And yet he is so young; no more than a youth
And still within sight of his childhood.
Artistically named and artistically inclined,
If smears of blood and streaks of anguish can be considered inspired
He cares for none (or so he says)
And no one cares for him.
Cheap words and caresses fulfil his superficial desires
There is one he hungers for, not that he would ever say
A child of Darkness such as him.
The Daughter of a Wolf and the Son of the Devil;
What a fine pair they would make!
When she passes him over he feigns outrage,
Adding a few new bruises to her collection for effect.
But does he care? In truth not really.
In solitary silence his heart resides.
From the streets he came and so on them he'll stay,
The underworld is home to him.
Righteousness and honour have no place here,
Where the darkest of the earthly demons remain.