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Description
a-Standing underneath the lamp,
the rain flows as his blood.
It's heart was hard, hollow, and damp,
no tears will be a-flood.

The wilting flower has a bud,
they say he's called Ashphalt.
His clothing the color of mud,
his hair a pitch dark malt.

My hunger. He says in sorrow;
His inky tears of red,
They slide along ivory cheeks.
Too bad that I am dead.

The victim sits limp at his feet,
his chin upon his chest.
The bloody punctures on his neck,
the blood upon his breast.

The fangs, the claws, the broken dreams,
ripped apart from the hem.
The love, the loss, the mortal lust,
ripped off the lengthy stem.

I wish to feel, he says aloud;
he lies upon his bed.
The life he lived, the one he lost,
Too bad that I am dead.

Description
a-Standing underneath the lamp,
the rain flows as his blood.
It's heart was hard, hollow, and damp,
no tears will be a-flood.

The wilting flower has a bud,
they say he's called Ashphalt.
His clothing the color of mud,
his hair a pitch dark malt.

My hunger. He says in sorrow;
His inky tears of red,
They slide along ivory cheeks.
Too bad that I am dead.

The victim sits limp at his feet,
his chin upon his chest.
The bloody punctures on his neck,
the blood upon his breast.

The fangs, the claws, the broken dreams,
ripped apart from the hem.
The love, the loss, the mortal lust,
ripped off the lengthy stem.

I wish to feel, he says aloud;
he lies upon his bed.
The life he lived, the one he lost,
Too bad that I am dead.