Is it so wrong to love beauty?
To admire the ocean in all its (non) tranquility?
To see the beauty in a corpse, mutilated by the curious scalpel?
Is it strange to taste the poisons that linger on their lips?
To lay in Death’s grips, such beauty it invokes, that
even the mist on a rose cannot entrance as much as that of deaths hold.
So is it wrong to lay and wish, on fallen stars, to kiss such a beauty as this?