For lust is a tightrope,
soldering fickle hearts, sewing passion.
Fade at its end,
or tumble into love.
Some hope woos smother,
contemplates the fall
To stir a velvet landing,
and dances slow.

She in her unbidden trance,
her golden hair littered,
sits in prayer, fidgets;
snuffed from the fall.
Forlorn, for an indulgent sliver.
Now lies a cold lover,
in her morphine bedlam.