In Voluptate Mors

He wears their skin as robes on his own throne of abomination.
His sexual exploration transcends the morgue
Where his victims are destined to be.
Skinning his filthy lambs to satisfy his primordial needs.

To cover his flesh with that of human veil.
His frustration grows and so does his anger.
Into desperation he falls.
And into vanity asunder.
Throughout his breathless stare.
He caresses her delicate hide.

Bloated corpses litter the country side.
Leaving no trace of the killer's mark.
Their fleshless bodies turning a pale grey.
Left for days for the worms to feast.

In Voluptate Mors.

Clawing her way up the steep walls.
Of mud, brick and stone.
Only to find the fingernails.
Of those who remain unknown.
In the calm musings of his cracked teeth lies an undying malice.
And a serpent like tongue.
Slithering back and forth.
There lies In Voluptate Mors.

Beg. For your life.
You fucking cunt.
Beg. For your life.

Flowing rivers of flesh festers on his bones. Unashamed.

Lured into a false sense of security.
As if he were the innocent one.
Her bleeding heart reeks of disgust,
He can already taste her stench.
His eyes were wide and bloodshot.
Her life will cease upon the end