I loved the idea of love,

-once-

entranced by the beating time,

forever trapped in the moment

of when I was lost inside your eyes.

I told you that I loved you,

and I'm truly sorry that I lied,

but you were just another harlot

with a siren between your thighs.



Cursed to be eternily tourmented,

by the taste and texture of your lips,

twisted into blind perception,

every time I accept your sinful kiss.

The devil has the masters strings,

to toy and make us dance in tasteless bliss,

then draw the night to dreary's end,

and paint the stars of which we wish.