There were no shadows in the meadow
No darkness, no scent of blood and lost souls
I tired fast of roses and sunsets.
If there was temptation involved,
It was mine, subtle and coy, in every
Red like my roses and red like your blood.
Fire and brimstone make for bleak living,
But I have you to keep me warm.
Shadows fit me like a glove.
Far away, the flowers wither and frost,
Cold like the despair of the dead,
Cold like your love;
I find I enjoy the cold.
My mother’s tears freeze on her cheeks and I,
I sink my teeth into a fresh, ripe fruit,