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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Romance/Love · #2238161
A poem about a promise I made one night to someone special.
Believe it or not the dead do talk and can walk.
Post mortem death-spasm, lung hacking cough.

I'm gonna raze like a fire-bird and burn on through.
I'm coming back from the grave- straight to you.

Taxidermized corpse smoking like a Newport,
Smoldering dead could make the next report.

Would you put out the fire from my altar pyre,
So I may service you anything your soul desires?

My eyes have been glued shut but that can be fixed,
Open them with a kiss from your ever chapped lips.

With your warm throbbing form and educated tongue,
Lead your servant with direction and make me come.

I am a loyal thrall his serpentine sodomite prince,
My undying allegiance, there will be no other since.

May I sit upon your lap my dearest bastard love?
We can grind our bones until our marrows are one.

Remember when you used to smoke menthols?
I would warn you about death every time I called.

Maybe that's a bad habit you should pick back up,
So that we could be the living dead- the both of us.
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