C.y.A.n.I.d.E V.o.W.s

Dressed in white, stood the bride.
Slowly sipping Cyanide.
Never would, to him, be wed,
Knowing she was better dead.
A taste of poison on her lips,
Dreading now, the final kiss;
Sign in blood, her final vow,
Touch his lips, remember how,
Love had grown, from just one sight.
Screaming still, all through the night.
Silence soon, the only sound,
As tortured bride falls to the ground.
Knowing now, he’s been infected,
Licks his lips, cold and rejected.
Catch the angel, dressed in lace.
Slowly caress her porcelain face.