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.