A Love for Death

A starless midnight sky snuffs out another light
and helps forget what was lost while turning to ice
the lingering affinity of an old vice,
the persistent comfort of carrion Night.

Old carrion comfort— This is no longer trite—
No amount of words of stillborn love could suffice
to explain myself to the living, that it thrice
was not an inner war that I’ve had to fight.

Adoration that could never be found in life,
I sought cold instead, in dead and dying lovers
whose clouded eyes could never behold such strife
as the soul to which Strife clings and suffers.
A ballad sung at the edge of a bloodied knife,
of lying with the dead between bloodless covers.