I

Ill-Fated Like Dorian

Bleak Nightmares shied

The Dread Lord left pressing

His case of red tears 'pon Morella

Ill-fated like immortal Dorian

Munteanu now shunned by the sun's righteous façade.

"If only I Could have held

Her in mourning through such blight

I would have held her so tight

Like Ligeia who rose

Upon the necrophage'd sky.

And kissed her

For what I've forlorn

From her lips alone

The waltz of nocturnal vistas.

Where romance swallowed the damned

With wintery hands

Of a nightmarish wraith

The Sanguis Virginis

Of mortified faith."

Ill-fated

No sonnet nor ballad in dulceted mirth

Shall revive his dear bride like Ligeia unearthed

Ill-fated

Dried is the scarlet that polluted his face

Now ill-fated like immortal Dorian Gray. 

II

The Nocturne of Murderous Crows

Low looming clouds that swore allegiance

Nymphonic, Chthonic be its bleak vengeance.

Happiness in opulence cracked like the looking glass

No reflection of himself if he pleased to glance

Loathed by the sun, gifting him reprimand.

The Dread Lord now broken by misfortune's purge

Munteanu near parched by this violent urge

Cursed to satiate his sanguine thirst...

In darkness born

A soul in mourn

In the throes of immortality

And thorns

Pierced mortal arms

Conjuring qualms

And causing ominous foreboding

'pon their hearts.

The dusk hath fell

The tolling bells

Mask his rising from the blackened crypt

In veiled

The crimson feast

Dubbed him the beast

As he gorged himself no matter

His displease.

For Lord Munteanu must serve

The murderous crows who preserve

The spilling of blood so perverse

Comme la romance des ombres sans nerf.

Nevermore doth life beckon for their fallen lord

As they watched this nocturnal carnage unfold

The piling of bodies

Like a massing string of pearls.

Bloodline in vain

A bliss he feigned

For his daughter Lyudmila

Know not his pain

Fell-families bleed

Bathed tragedies

The Blackened Warlock cursed him

Ensuring victory.

The Dread Lord must now roam the earth

As the murderous crows still preserve

The spilling of blood so perverse

Comme la romance des ombres sans nerf.

For each colored eyeball held wisdom

And permeated horror within

The Dread Lord's final dance

In mortal life he chanced

Only facing eternal future

That awaited him there... 

III

The Fall of the House of Munteanu

In an age purified by the Morningstar Flame

Nouvelle is their opulent grave

The light of Lucifer shines not 'pon this house

Should Lord Munteanu embrace His lumined blaze

The Necromancer Frankenstein laughed with hark

Deploying dark chants to a fallen skylark

And those enthralled by depravity

Snuffed by the gait of its waltz

In concluded evening in midst of solemnity

The crow entered and cawed "Forevermore shall it be thy fault."

Benighted be noble Lyudmila who sighed

In the boredom of fallen night

'til she's approached by the heavenly woman in white

A bleeding nun, porcelain in eyes

This terror invoked

So freezingly cold

To bid her knowledge of a bloodline declined.

"I'm thy true mother in spirit

For I have met fate

In the hands of a Dark Warlock

Thine father lives cursed

Enchantments in verse

To watch as his 'prentice cast his spells on the Last Skylark."

In denial she refused

And left, dazed and confused

Her face the color of bright puce

The blissful night she pursued

Until she met the freezing hands of Victor Frankenstein.

So ends this tall-tale of decadent worth

Of a fallen, noble house

Dear Lyudmila of Munteanu birth

From a grace-filled skylark to a mouse.

The Dread Lord slowly drowning in pestilence's blight

Begging swift mercy by Lucifer's light.