The Loving Dead

If you reached into my being,

Grabbed a hold of my Wretched Heart

You'd find it putrid and tattered,

Eaten away by maggots,

Yet, it still beats?

How could that be?

Why would a person so worn and rotten,

Need a beating heart?

She's incapable of living,

Further away from love,

But that Wretched Heart remains beating.

And, oh, it doesn't stop there!

What was once only identifiable as a mellow,

Nearly nonexistent sign of life,

Sune became a melodic tune of thumping against this hallow chest.

The one guilty for this sin being you.

You who dug up my grave with your dirty, calloused hands,

And with the press of your warm lips on my cold ones,

Filled my Wretched Heart with life once again.

Making the two of us guilty of this sin,

Bringing me closer to Love.