A family of four sit at a table. Blood red candles burn, As shadows of hell dance upon their faces. Wooden and round, The table holds a coverings as black as a crows feather. Four crystal wineglasses stand rigid and tall In front of each family member. Each one staring into a black oblivion, They raise their wrists above their glass. Eyes camouflaging with the darkened room, Each member extends a silver knife. A glimmer, a shine, The family brings the steel to their wrists. Mouths open wide, They chime together in silent screams. Droplets of blood fill into each member's glass. River's now flowing red from damaged wrists, The glasses fill to the brim. All four grim faces rotate their glasses. A sip from an others blood, They rotate again. Their own glass back in hand, They drink the last morsel of blood. A tremor, a twist, The family of four rise and fall. A swelling heat fills their soul, As they enter hell, For their eternal home.