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Gloved hands of time swept sinister
through wooded paths to follow her,
short cutting life to gutted home
entombed with crime as black squalor.

But she, pale innocence, to roam
along his haunt at night alone
brings quickened heart with skips to ground
and cloth full-soaked by chloroform.

She wakens to the echoed sound
of tears few men have ever found
expressed across black velvet womb,
in darkness caught, their loving bound.

But he, the victim, owns this tomb
and plays the part of loving groom.
When boredom casts her from this room,
he plucks another flow’r from bloom.