BLOOD LUST My night is thy day, sunless vertigo thick with groaning apathy infinite irony ancient anathema pounding in a heartless pulse bred without birth or tears for severed feeder   yet my rue is that of the feeder drawn into depths of crimson vertigo I feel the hunger as a relentless pulse beating-beating-beating in cold apathy screaming its anathema amongst gnashing irony   so superbly sweet this bitter irony it feeds the lust but not the feeder an inbred anathema a taunting heartbeat vertigo a gnawing apathy that can't be found by fingers touch upon an empty pulse   but thy pale and fluttering pulse regrets such dark regard and irony perhaps thy touch defies my apathy and stills the drum that calls the feeder and calms the maelstrom's crimson vertigo lessening the innate hunger of my anathema   else this godless anathema bleed too many to still pulse and their blood swirl its vertigo abating thy perfume with lusts irony and I again suckle as the feeder on the breast of apathy   such is the dark and delicate soul of forlorn apathy feeding - bleeding - feeder resurrecting - infecting - anathema until the beating - beating - beating pulse is no longer irony but a blacken hole inside souls vertigo   vertigo - swirling - pulling life into my dark and dreary anathema ignoring earthly apathy masked by heart and sweeten pulse as my night is thy irony, thy love is but blood lust for the feeder