Was heaven sent,

Or so I'd thought,

And what it meant,

A virgin not.

And blackest black,

And darkest night,

To break our backs,

And have no light.

To death we spill,

With velvet love,

To taste the thrill,

Of crimson blood.

And rotting wombs,

With blackened doves,

And now I drip,

Of crimson blood.