Siberian winters have nothing on my love
Run, my love, for the dark queen has her eye
On you, casting her spell from above
Wicked on a dusty throne, deep sigh
And moan
From molding corners
Creaking wood and melting jade
Rotting velvet and stained silk
She awakes
Ruminating on centuries old marble and
Stained glass, decaying gold, and
Creaking bones, night falls and you are not
Alone in these halls for long
She hungers and knows you wait
Your scent a barely ripe fruit
Honeysuckle to the gods
Running our games through an old palace
She knows these too well and waits
For you to settle
So she can begin
Give to me of you and let me
Know your taste
Let me touch you
Let me feel you
Because when the clock chimes
You will be mine