You dangerous habit of some Hellish God,
Perhaps some faraway hope can hold me;
No human heart can match your organ-spilled fraud.
Alas, no supernal savior sees me free.
Yet a dubious thought strikes my blank dreams
(though I hold no temptation to your grin)
A rare occasion of light, dull in its gleam,
For I am no gifted sylph of your sin.
You treat my eyes, being the stunning creature
That rose from pretty graves of former loves.
Even my frankenbrain holds no feature,
Compared to your death pale hands shaped like doves.
Though those red stars are falling like silver rain,
You will surely snatch the one wish I gain.