I’m effusively bellowing inside.
Internally drowning from within,
Tears no longer mine but hers.
For the death of whom I’m crying.

Icicles in the moonlight now seem colder to me.
Cold yet they still warm my heart.
Sights of frost will certainly,
Make shudder, lovers apart.

Those who have lost are in torment temporary;
Torment which distance brings.
If only they knew they would be again,
No significance would there be for rings.

She choreographed a dance as old as time,
Men moved to her demands.
Butting and rutting for her attention they crave,
With expectations of fanciful chance.

Never will it be, for her intention is to self satisfy.
Dangling the bogus carrot of possible love,
In front of their antlers, only to turn away,
As soon as she deems it enough.

But wherein she choreographs, and that with which she conducts,
Plays success but only for short,
Since consumption of razzle dazzle, done so for long enough,
Will guarantee her life be cut short.

Knowledge of this is information on which to act.
Act we can, but listen with open ears and mind she will not.
And so she brings us to the sorrowful point,
Although temporary, bare this torment I cannot.

Such a cruel and foreseeable demise predicted by all.
Foresee it she could not since blinded by her origin,
Of facile masks which paved her the way,
And follow with closed eyes she did, to her ending.

On such innocence will the masks master play.
Naivety and kind willingness he will hunt,
For the trustworthy targets, easy to accumulate,
Using pornia to distract as males bunt.