Decadence

Alone.

That's how it started, I suppose.

Wrapped in cold sheets, under a city on fire stuck in shadows of repose.

 

Where streets had been full and walkways clotted

with bumbling children and fretting folks

out on their morning strolls.

 

But life is gone now and morality dead.

With a lascivious smile, fingers outstretched,

She traces the hair along my head.

 

I'd never imaged her to be warm.

Welcoming.

The calm amongst a firestorm.

 

She knew I'd betrayed every life in my hands,

their blood leaving me stained

with a dripping scarlet brand.

 

She lies beside my bloodied body

up against me in a curve

of soft skin and black lace,

a sea of tingling nerves.

 

I was the betrayer, though.

The taker of human life

and because of this, she smiles so sensuously

cutting as hard as a knife.

 

As I lay in the rubble of a dying city,

in a bed of broken glass and concrete,

Death holds me with decadent lust

and pulls me into her salacious suite.

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