Damn your poetry; all those golden words
Which drip like venom from your subtle knife
The mirage painted now seems so absurd
Yet for its glory I’d have spent my life.
You held my hand, gently my throat did bleed,
While lips with softest kisses left their mark
Softly your mirage shimmered, matched my need,
Beautiful melodies were heard not callous barks.
But oh, were it just that you were from hell,
A succubus whose joy was in my fall,
For did I not invite you in as well,
Allowing your devotion to my call?
Such bitter sweetness in the blood which flows:
We both are bleeding in love’s dying throes.

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