�black snake moan.

?I can not die.? You will pass as a dream, and no more; you cannot love. And I am heartless, though it quivers still ? the last pulsings of a withering world left to its possession. You might have forgotten, but I never will. You will regret, you will regret; burn then in these moments of sacrilege, burn then in your sins forever. I will infect this world, it will be my presence in dreams, in nightmares. Your senseless abandon will not be my undoing. Love, and hatred, equally possessed him ? but not for his soul, which lingered the grasp of purgatory's hellish mouths and lapped the delicious black milk of his sufferings. Not his heart, for whose pulsing was horrific in its animalistic fever, derived ripping from the virulent pits of a seventh hell. But his entirety; yes, the essence of his being devoured the blushing vestal rose of love ? and from its thorns bled him his eternal loathing. His derision was a poison dripping from the glinting rise of his narrow fangs, their rows upon rows sharpened, shining. Knives glistening in their sadistic reign of blood and fury; a mouth of nails, a cavern of dissolve, and their mercy is unrest for their insatiable throne. His gaze is endless siege of dissension and despair, an unrelenting expanse that dared tread beyond madness in their sombre pry of flesh and bone; flesh and sweet marrow betwixt, for curve and sensuality there within his reach. His perversion is magnetism in his loveless mourning, his vengeance burns deeper than leagues of weary styx or the ache of its endless cry. Vicious, rampant being unhinged; rage courses his veins like a rapid drug, and his addictions deprive him of any desire for remorse. And his love ? his love, desecrated like a tomb bred filthy soils fit for his rot; his love is the machinations of his mind and body, and the fervent sins of his sick, black heart. A reckless devil spat from the infernos of his despotic communion, his restless demeanor is a dangerous dominion, a violence risen beyond grasp of morality. What was worst was his presence; his shadow, his awful contempt that swelled the walls of his crypt and exhausted a moan from its deep, dark valleys damp in the stalactite wounds of its cadaver. The crawl of flesh and filth hemorrhaging from the chill of his aversion like a torrent of lurching spiders, serpents, a smoke leeching the warmth from all that trespassed his solitude; his wrath is a perilous wreckage of a hideous delusion. His face is dark and hollow, a rasping smooth lake of wretched abandon whose waves coarsened the disheveled curve of his smirking lips and grinning teeth. He rested solemnly along the black shores of the ocean, seemingly molded from their sands a deity of chaos and contempt, bathed in the comfort of a cold starless night.