Like those we do not mention ingesting not in jest the living's intestines,
jaws the churning pistons of festering undead flesh-questing engines,
an unblessed region infested with lurking legions of heathens,
mercilessly unleashing a murder season,
Twisted, sordid rigor mortis hordists, doors boarded serve not as a fortress.
Attempt to ignore the relentless menace
and receive your penance as sustenance for repugnant ex morgue-tenants.
You sing to me a more pleasant tune,
than to the darkest night,
brings a crescent moon.
Your essence swoons
a renascent plume
of sentiments one could not assume.
—a tenant in my blood
to which I'm not immune.