Singing echoed through the darkened museum. A scarlet trail; like breadcrumbs.
My heart is withered in my chest
My soul curdled sour
That’s the way I like it best
For my true love to devour.
Give me not a cherub fool
To whisper saccharine sweet
No, his face, a shadowed pool
Alabaster gaunt; I worship at his feet.
For none but him that never asks,
But with a scythe to rip
The love I willingly give.
Near the dying guard Mademoiselle Marhand sits blood-soaked hands and ancient eyed, waiting; cursed. Nevermore to touch her lover, sensing him near she weeps.