It was a poetic night, unlike the crime of passion burning in the gravelly depths of her eyes. A nomad of emotions, an angry heiress, her folding desires masked by humanity. Her eyes were that of green jewels, and her mask was that of winged beasts, as she danced,  passionless dance, with her fiance’. Though, she was unhappy, her affairs of the heart, filled with her love for her own admirer. The single tear a young maiden shed at the hands of her own heart’s love, she was in a solitude of her own. Though mad, the prince was still flawless, skin etched with gold, and hair, a black of night, eyes shining like corpse brides dresses. His final words spoken so softly into the ear of his temptress were inaudible, for the mistress had taken his bated breath away. A sort of powerless struggle for inhuman wishes. As his own body fell, the horrid soul of the deprived, lunatical man. 
As his body fell, and the solemn clock tolled midnight, as the scarlet maiden fled, the scene of the bloodstained body. Of course, as the night went on, news spread like a disease, infecting the long since forgotten innocence was tainted by this fact. Many danced in a dance of black and coffins, as the graveyard of kings was invaded by preachers and choirs. Maidens clad in the gowns of queens. As if the dead man, were something to be sorrowful for. A bittersweet satisfaction for a scorned woman, whom the dead man had pleaded with before, the scarlet maiden’s mother, who begged for mercy from the devilish man. He showed no clemency for her mother, so why should her humanity show in his hour of need. Though his lustful greed for the blood of the impatient bodice of the inhumanity of the tramps on the street. A tongue of passion, a burden, much like desire, but different than that, darker, scarier. Maybe she was sated with the conclusion. But since then, the grave of the prince was bare, no flowers or care, for the dark man, with his darker mind, and even darker demise.