Morgul

I am not what I seem to be
This flesh is not reality
In some fantasy it may be cookies to go with the wine
In a dream it could be a rigid phallus inside of you
Silently through lifeless corridors
One where feces lie scattered,
one where the seeds of thousand saints burn and suffer the
agonies of the damned
Within you, beaten, whipped, so intensely fucked
I infect you with death