The Open Door

I walk and see a mistress in black, threads made of
shimmering blood and glimmering frozen tears dyed red
as she made her way up the stairs of ebony glass
that seemed to shatter with every step,
its cracks spewing out liquidated souls and red wine.

She had the lips of a magazine, cut and pasted
with a thousand different shades and texture of deceased
and when she kissed me with that frigid touch
I felt my entire happiness drain, like she was the reaper.
Drain, as if she was a soul stealer, and I felt like a gaping hole
of nothingness. Worthless, I could only stare
as she shattered every star in the sky with a malevolent touch.
Worthless, as she brought down the moon and caused a violent eclipse
that drowned this miserable world in a day of absolute darkness.

Did I mention the door that rested atop the stairwell?
It seemed to be structured of ruptured bones and blood,
slightly open, wisps of black attempting to plan their escapade
but the mistress in black dispatched them with an unholy grenade
and like they appeared so swiftly, swiftly they disappeared
as she cackled with a resonating evil that seemed to disturb the cosmos.

This open door, what lies beneath this open door?
She would not reveal it so, she relies on sweet sacrifice
to breathe life onto her pale, white skin, this snow white queen,
this mistress in black with the heart of coal,
the heart I've desperately sought after, the only one.

Perhaps I'm losing control in all that I'm living for,
but I pray I have a chance at gazing within that lonely, open door,
where she guards with her mesmerizing, blatantly piercing stare,
waiting until we can be together again, singing a duet
in that last song I'll waste on such a tyrannous queen.

Break down that door, we'll be together forever more.
Let the darkness consume our entity,
merging our tales of honest infidelity.