how those dead can dance amid the flutes of love

The skeletons danced and their bones burned auburn beneath the orange moon, clacking their jaw bones at a large ribcage drowning in winter ale. The secret scent of myrr composed the elegant twilight with a sensual harmony that regarded the dead as in their proper places. Pale faces kissed beath pink lanterns and eyes glowed with sapphire fire in a lock and key arrangement of outdoor love that lit coffins with light and exposed the graveyard with illumination, where bones rustled like xylophone music over the gleaming sepulchres that couldn't quit love, that couldn't lose the emotion even when the corpses clawed out of masoleums and when drunken morons lay down in shallow graves. Our two lovers names are Eugene and Mona, these two fated to be together, to love despite the world's sadness; these two who had clicked like a sofft tongue noise during a French kiss, these two who had ever been together through were geographically apart, these two who had been divinely married.