Marc Almond Remorse Of The Dead
My dark beloved When you lie asleep Deep within your black marble tomb For alcove and lodge You will keep a damp, dripping vault A pit of gloom And when the stone Weighing down your breast And your thighs once supple Through scant concern Stills your heart From it's desiring quest Fastens your feet From the reckless run The grave, which shares My eternal dream For the poet the grave always understands During long nights When sleep is far away Will ask: what do you gain You dumb whore Not to have known what the dead cry for? And, like remorse, At your flesh worms will gnaw
