1. 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


2. THE BLACK DEATH

From the deaths of a million men
A child buried in the arms of his mother's grasp.
Decayed bodies piled up one by one.
Maggots devouring an emaciated carcass.

Starved the life from my flesh.
I neither have the strength nor will left.

In the dead of night it lurks in the shadows.
Among rats and filth, to quench its desires;
Carving up your flesh.
When you are dead with shame.
A thousand men will come for you.
As you fall into slumber.
Unbeknownst to the maggots.
They have already consumed your soul.
God doesn't pity this shadow of your former self.

To cleanse these bodies of this disease we must purge the filth with fire.

We offer our…
Dead to a god that doesn't hear our prayers.
He selected by hand a million men and women.
The children were left to rot in the sun.
For the crows to take helping of their severed tongues.

Who do we blame for the death of a million men?
Decomposition rearing its ugly head upon the dead.
With withered hands I caress your lifeless face.
Behold the angels of the black plague.