In Colder Blood

Inept smile cast upon the wasteland of youth
A naive cult of the consummated unwed
Their eyes may seem to hold a certain gleam
But the skin owns the chill of the recently dead
And fickle hearts are void of a slither of sincerity

These seeds planted in her desolate womb
Have no chance to ever flourish
And even if - by some slim of fate
Will be killed with the first hoar frost

This seasoned curse is irreversible
But I will still lie and wait in this darkened room
In hope to consume that Arctic-like flesh
In colder blood