Poetry By Porcelain Prince

Death

The icy grave of death pulls me down within his grip
He scratches me upon my flesh and drags me by my hips.
Upon his touch I crave her lips upon my naked frame.
I miss her but now wasted away; I'm gone just the same.
As he pulls me into my grave I long to feel her clutch me and hold me near.
For one more kiss on my neck I'd do anything my dear.
But death's grip is strong and final.
There will be no survival.