She may think its silver-tongued
Or truths been spun;
Such traits have vexed me.
No nose to grow,
Deceit once shown,
Upon no Book can she confess me.

These lips of snake
and cunning ways
out foxed the truth
that's all to plain.
All eyes can see,
Alas 'sept she,
The majesty
of my ******.

The seeds of doubt
I must route out,
No weeds can grow
amongst the rose.
Can't make her know
or presuppose,
Blind faith
leads down uncharted roads.

I know that as she lays with me,
She feels my heart beat,
Stutter; Frenzy.
A stomach knot I cannot shake,
butterflies contrive to wake.