You had taken the stage by heart,
With only a portrait in arms.
And a face full of gold,
That you’d be admired for the priests.
Though, their craving for silver,
Is their serpentine fetish.
A stage where there is rotten flesh.
Music drenched in agony,
And a memory washed in blood.
You flashed a breast before the crowd,
And made a wicked mark,
With your hands at the side.
You seduced the admirers for the first,
And for the second, they were failed,
In the lust of your thorns
That decorated your heart.
A head in your hands, a portrait in arms.
A beauty, that you are, with untimely graces.
To fill the fields with blood
Would mean to lash thy back seven-fold!
A face of no mercy,
To your face full of certainty,
Would make the whole world dance,
With all your fevered screams.