In the shadows of the chapel, where the sorrow softly lays,
I find lust among the weeping, in the mourning’s quiet haze.
With each tear that falls like raindrops,
passion rises from the depths,
in the grief, I seek the pleasure, in the silence after breaths.
Underneath the blackened veils, where the saddest hearts do beat,
there’s a craving in the whispers,
where the mourning and joy meet.
The collision of two worlds, in the grip of raw despair,
finding warmth in the carnal, in the solemn, heavy air.
The guilt is like a fire, burning through the funeral pyre,
mixing moans with the choir, in a twisted, dark desire.
I’m the mourner at the gate, seeking sin in solemn state,
in their tears, I find my fate, in the grief, I can’t abate.
Is it madness, is it sin, to crave touch on sorrowed skin?
To find arousal in the cries,
to seek the heat where warmth denies?
Yet in this dark, I find my call,
where tears and pleasure mix and fall,
a guilty dance, a secret tryst, within the mourning’s heavy mist.
So I’ll linger in the shadows, where the saddest stories blend,
in the cries that echo softly, in the pleasure that they lend.
In the darkest of confessions,
where the heart’s forbidden yearns,
in the silence of the chapel, where the mourner’s candle burns.