Nephastopheles' Dream

Pretty colours in the hall,
—milady, do not fell aghast!—
pretty patterns on my wall!
Dripping bloody horrors
—as the cultures of the past—
seldom meets their pourers.

‘Tis thy inevitable sooth:
tuned to the birds mourning
twilight of Thursday’s morning
fires shalt find thee, oh burning sleuth!

Thy teeth thawed as ice,
thy existence slowly fading,
eye lids to the skies waving,
naught but a demon will splice.

—Samael throws the dice—
one hundred demons rape
—beneath thy legs, oh delicious grape!—
thy putrified body, scarlet juice,
—image which invites to calmly snooze
on thy remains, released the noose—

Thus, at the end of this suculent sound,
retribution for thy betrayal I have found
and by Thanatos our souls forever bound.

Pretty colours in the hall,
—milady, do not feel aghast!—
pretty patterns on my wall!
Dripping bloody horrors
—as the cultures of the past—
seldom meets their pourers.