Black Soul

Death is his passion,

The smell of fear,

The smell of hate,

He loves it all.

At times it’s all he loves,

The color of blood,

Even in the night,

It’s all still lovely.

Roses blosseming on their clothes,

Tattoos of blood,

Imprinting images in his head.

All the times he hurt,

It’s time to repay,

To express his gratitude,

And we’re all dead.