I once then talk a maiden saint,
Who soon told me a secret taint.
Beyond the field of valley death,
Where flowers bloom without a breath.
My hands are drawn this rare of plant,
Rarer still I heard their chant.
The dead then rise above their grave,
That sing their song that lost their crave.
I hide beneath the corpses pile,
That putrid scent of vomit vile.
And watch the scene their ritual dance,
With curious mind that leave me trance.
Breathless flower that bloom at night,
Without the rays or warm of light.
The dead then pause and turn their head,
To sudden gaze I feel their dread.
Soulless eyes that drain from life,
That stare at me with movement strife.
I haste to flee the walking dead,
With rising fear my face turn red.
My legs then pace through thick and thin,
But chances are I cannot win.
They soon engage that block my way,
As darkness swells my hope now stray.
I then was brought to the deathly rose,
In strange of blue and purple pose.
To my surprise I see the saint,
Who made a smile that made me faint.
With touch I feel her coldly hand,
The rose then bloom in golden grand.
My eyes was glued upon her face,
Of paint, of eyes, of blacken space.
And when I saw I was not there,
For past was done and dreams were fair.
Escape I did with life intact,
But change I am and that’s a fact.