The spell was a spell of words half meant,
half truth, half lie
half fooled, half loved;
Like blades half struck,
In a beating heart,
half dead, still beating,
in an unending hymn
of a sonorous howl.

The spell was a spell of love half spent,
half joy, and hatred;
of pain of blindness;
Till his eyes saw,
That the paths lead,
to a half-made pyre
for him, alone.

The spell was a spell of lies unmasked,
half strangled glares
of smiles, of smirks,
for the silly man
who fully gave his love
but have no rose to keep.

To the dark lady, wearing pearls
Rich and dark, and foolish,
half living, half happy
in her throne of hearts:
the witch, and mad
of her vengeful thirst.

I the victim, I the cursed
half forgetting; halted thirst
for her blessing,
for her; her spell
an unending chant of a man's doom.