No grave can hold my body down; I'll crawl home to her.

Her dark beauty renders the lifeless living and relentless in their worship with a warm kiss to their cheek, a whisper to their ear, and a breath to their lips. 'Twas my fate to her.

The earth was freshly turned my barrow over when she glided in through the churchyard, her draping muslin and vines befalling grave between grave. Her hands of life gripped my soul, and I was alive from my bones, my dust. Free, I thought, and free she told me. But I was not free at all.

While she had brought me to life and she had seemed radiant and good, the notion of the reanimation felt anything but holy. I could think of nothing else as my heavy limbs tried to lumber home, only _her. _Her eyes, the sparkling vacuums of night; the curve of her devil lips; her flood of raven hair against the pale of her skin; the irresistible down of her nape; the soft of her hip. My mind was insatiable.

I even wished to be dead once more, to liberate myself of the lustful torment, but no matter what fate I sought out, I couldn't seem to die. I was destined to be her lover, her devotee, her acolyte. Who was this siren? How had she bewitched me so?

One night, I trudged ten miles, then ten more, then ten more, to her gates. Broken-bodied, crypt-breath whistling through unbeating ribs - the very skin rotted off my sinews, my muscle. The only thing as strong as adoring her was fearing her disgusted of me. But when she saw me, o, those dark and wild eyes, her black pearls, her black sea hair, she was exultant.