Antony Ros

It does not beat, this cold dead heart
It lays decayed beneath flesh and bone
It does not feel from joy or pains emotion
It feels from action sedated by living cells

The drink of blood, quenches desires thirst
The buzzing tingles
The tongue tickled
The high from a rush begotten, killing people

Beware, the hungry savage
Beware, of its lustful carnage
Beware, of its everlasting lineage
Beware, the wolfs ravage


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