Death and the Maiden
The old cliché I never could abide;
That Death a maiden would find by his side
To let me touch and do just as I please—
But I refuse to dwell on thoughts like these
Where my sharp fingers light across your flesh,
And make your cold heart race beneath your breast,
Which softly presses as I touch your lips
And still my bony hand against your hips—
But I must stop this pointless train of thought,
For my young maiden Death has never sought
Except to scowl and force some trivial task,
You face as chill as any porcelain mask.
And really that is how our lives should be,
For how can I allow you now to see
Just how much I desire to be inside
And take you down below to be my bride?
…and with that thought one blooms within my head
That you will be all mine once you are dead.
So I will wait with patience of a saint
Until your maiden body death will taint.
Then in your hands my fingers fleshless twine
And keep you near eternally as mine.
