The Ghost

I swear torturers are friends not foes,
They said I had to endure sweetly
To reach the throne above all bliss,
My cell, they swear, must turn black.
Portrait of a fragile tomb
Waiting for me, I climbed into the bed.

And where I am, where I lie
I became death.
I'm a black man dying
For a perfumed breath,
But I can not rest,
Too much sky
Too many far of cries
Interfere with my light and shadow.

They left the soft poison.
I was drunk in front of the glass
The robe wakes in my bleeding.
But in the glass, my face,
Has become a strange skull
In all the prophets locked in the flame,
How I do dance,
How I laugh in the wild
Licking the starless fog
Of the ghost waiting for his pleasures ghost.

But I can not. No I can not.
We're just friends, dear ghost.
But he troubled such grace
I could not help but pray to him
Licking and caressing in the dark
And begged him not to torture me
Unless it was his will
Because I was raging.

And the prophets wept
To witness so dark a scene,
From the glass as I took the specter
To the tip of my silvering tongue.
Ah! Dear ghost screaming
Which hour of death is the sweetest?
Which hour of death is the sweetest
When I dare not swallow for fear of your flavors,
Tell me! Tell me I have no words
For to speak now may hex my darling mind!
O! Ghost! Am I your craving?