The Sweet Undead

Erizabet has dreamed of eternal woods and fogbound nights.

               I want to be there with the witches and ghosts and sweet undead.

               The hauntings of the dark places are a welcome chill in this city.

               I know the cauldron will make the potion that gives these dreams flesh.


               The wild land is where we’re headed as the sun fades and purple comes.

               This old bike carries us down the winding forest road to our best paradise.

               She holds tight, her long brown hair a banner of dragons in the wind.

               Cold air and the dark of night, real demons are soothing, unlike those angels.


               A devilish corpse is the king of the free beasts and hungry spirits and lustful things.

               Erizabet is the crimson wings on which the lupine moon hangs it’s smile.

               We’ll sleep under stars infernal and soft as bone, harsh as a desperate kiss.

               Home in the ruined castles and dark crypts, the true paradise of fangs and blood.




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