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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Here potions do what make-up’s brush cannot,
Lending sparkles to such grey morning light.
With bleary eyes, we stumble without thought
In through the doors, escaping weary night.
Soft peddlers of long accepted sin
Relieve our aching symptoms of withdrawal;
Brewing black magic, served in paper thin.
Our own delights created at a call?
We learn to ask for what we want so late
Leading a life so limited by forms;
For menu boards; which specify our fate,
Draw smoothly in and limit us to norms.
So do not fear to step beyond today
Let heart decide and live this life your way.