Of what violins and vaginas singularly sing,
Is a creation unbound by the vestiges of sin.

A persona unchained by the compounds of life,
Forever in fury, an eternal delight.

Inexorable, inexplicable, impeding time
A fatal addiction for articulate lies.

Lies, in truth, are not what they seem—
Bold, these words are beautiful, and serene.

Twisted entirely by the sleight of a hand
That would never touch the soul, the thought, the man.

By what dreams and nightmares are haunted—
Red lips that can never be daunted.