Still under your casted spell,
years and miles have not broken,
the rosined bow glides heartstrings,
a melody from yesterday plays.

It's funny how painted lips
seen across the room,
stirs a passioned cauldron
I thought emptied.

But those lips once pressed to mine,
branded and injected and scarred,
with witchcraft skill outshining Mab,
a lust that cannot be rend asunder.

The reunion cut short,
I hurry and leave,
lest she see me,
whereupon I shall turn to clay.

Too malleable in her hands,
and too open to suggestion,
my will wants this,
but my mind must overcome.