Some of you write of love and its passion and softest touch.
Do you not know the savage weaponry of which you speak?
Has the blade never sliced 'til core exposed you feel nothing?
Have you never been lured by the soft whispers it entreats with?
And with a rage so harsh seen your very heart torn from you?
Loves romance with keys to fit your every defense leaving exposure?
Vulnerability you wouldn't volunteer in moments of sanity.
Of loves passion, it is a trap. So far will you fall when it springs.
A wound so deep is love that you will never feel whole again.
Tender caresses of flesh to captivate and weaken your mind.
Luring and dulling the common sense and with blade at ready.
You are drawn to that deceptive softness, the apparent warmth.
And yet still love is armed with throat and heart as targets.
Entrapped you give way to the hold of it, the thought of it.
Loves power will take your soul and crush it and leave it dust.
And yet like you I crave it still and insanity causes me to think....
This time love will be kind.