To love is to smother oneself in dismay.
It’s poking a thousand needles red hot,
Then sewing in thread and pulling it taut.
At dawn daylight would soon betray
all the night’s secrets in an explosive array.
She would leave him bleeding, shot,
and yet he still could not have fought,
even in pain he could not turn away.
He knows Love is not a kind mistress;
she is flighty and sways to passion.
To love her is to sign a warrant for death.
She loses her interest easily
for a night spurred by attraction;
she will devour you till your last breath.