The graves do sing a lonesome song
of blood wanted and flesh needed.
We are to bring a sacrifice 'ere long
when the full moon shines and the bell chimes.

The demons require specific flesh
for pleasant woes and selective throes.
Young blood; pale white and black mesh
to transpose death to life, yet absent the knife.

Raised to perfection, spade and true,
nature is their beauty and love their duty.
Correlations of black to white and pale to blue,
the beautiful shall die when the wolves next cry.

Never will they be able to love.
Locked and kept hidden-or the town will be smitten.
Dark and dank the ceiling above,
they're woken at dusk to wash the musk

But, one looks upon the moon-
a silent tear upon a cheek-restless spirits for the weak.
To feel the slaughter and hear the tune
of mysteries burning and angels churning.

Simple obscurities for centuries told
and prophecies of death during a night's mystical breath.
Black and blue of the youngness old
will deliver the dead upon a coffin of lead.