The brain is a machine

Succubus

I bathe in the blood of your enticing character.
The wine I've drank that was made from your perspiration has drugged me.
In a drunken daze I cup a pale breast and seize my immortality.
My dear concubine, I feel the opposite.
You're draining of my energy in this dilapidated brothel.
Surely, I will die if I grip your golden, quilted legs.
But will it lead me to be reborn?
Or will I be another corpse in line for your autopsy.