Could death be salvation?

Raven eyes watch 
from aching shadows, 
as maroon gowned love 
dances across blurring lines
into sin-soaked obsession.

An infested melody of possession and—
a shackling guilt serving only to bind
unfortunate souls in a devilish waltz,
a knife and a mask glimmer under candle light.

Feverish skin sweats cold,
still you must move.
Force aching limbs to glide 
seamlessly from twirl to box step,
a single twitch out of a place 
would be a fate worse than life.

Could death be salvation? For the hopeless—
even the end can be more merciful than
the pains of a dull and hopeless life, yet—
still you fight, even as sharp pain grinds
against calloused feet and scarred arms.

His grip, rough and ruthless,
shows no weakness, stumble no more.
Dance elegant as doves and fight fierce as eagles.

Or else,
you'll lose.

And of course
losing has a tithe.

A payment of memories,
not yours of course - 
but his.

If you lose,
lover becomes 
stranger once more.

For eternity. 

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