Two Serial Killers,
Both alike in dignity.
In fair Miami,
Where we we lay our scene.
Where unethical blood makes moral hands unclean.
From forth the blood soaked shipping container,
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take lives.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O that I her glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that knife...
But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and Lumin is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious Jordan,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou his victim art far more murderous than he.
That I might help give her Jordan, and, when he shall die,
We shall Take him and cut him out in our kill room,
And he will make her face illuminate so fine.
That all the world will be in love with our night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
These violent delights have violent ends.
And in their triumph die,
Like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss, consume.
A glooming peace next Monday morning with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
For the current season of Dexter shall be dead.
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
For there never was a tale with more doom in,
Than that of Dexter and his Lumin.
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