Death in French

The stranger with a still drying name.

Covert missionary in a foreign land.

lit cigarette and the gospel of death.

Seeking ghosts in the Serpents Fire.

Where he sipped french intoxication,
falling to spells di inferi in ravens hair.

Eyes of blackest waters shimmering
in moon’s light.

A red dress rose above azov stockings.

Deadly glances her question point blank,
“Shall it be your room or mine?”.

Seduced by sin, drunk with need.

Seductively lead to her ravenous den.

Once a cork popped she temptingly said,
“I love drinking champagne when I’m wet”

Two lovers at their best, in passionate heat.

Flushed cheeks, purient cries, as she’s ontop.

In loss of control his eyes close as he lets go.

And from above an angel of death descends with a silent muzzles flash.

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