The painting on the wall,
in that cold and dark hall,
of her and her man before,
back in another bloody war.
She and him are so solemn,
as angels, demons, call ’em,
her thin fingers on his shoulder.
He looks away, he will not hold her.
She’s here now, haughty and proud,
and my heart beats so very loud.
So many wars after, him underground.
Her ice grey eyes, hungry, like a hellhound.
That man before, would not follow the dark,
the shadows that swallow every lie’s spark.
Her hand touches mine, her ruby lips kiss mine.
I follow her and I follow the dark, all of it just fine.
All these years, and still she hungers, still she yearns.
As heaven and hell and ever sacred grove now burns.
On her toes, she bites my neck, and cold now is sweet.
Young woman’s face, hides the reaper of the wheat.
We walk, down that dark and cold hall, to the starlight.
I am hers, I will follow, underground, hunger and delight.
Young woman’s face, the ancient of nights in a soft smile.
Soft and whispering faces are Satan’s truest, kindest guile.