Of mud and clay,
drawing strength from the sun.

In the heat,
insides harden even if layers begin to peel.

But in the rain,
the shell concedes and starts to run.

All is left,
is a puddle - stagnant and bereft of zeal.

A fresh lick of paint
Is applied to these houses
That are so far and few
In between.

Just like deception
And lies that are covered
Up to steal another life force
For your benefit.

But you don't think I see
The transparency of your ways,
I've seen your type before
Succubus of stone hearts.

You reap and haunt
The dreams of innocence,
Men who are so happy
To be loved and to be whole.

But that's your favourite trick,
Once they're yours, you disappear,
As you siphon liquid gold
And purity from trapped souls.

Trapped in an endless cycle
Of doubt and hope,
But they still hold onto
The woman they once knew.

If that woman ever existed.