The intoxic flame framed phrase, burned my heart.
The unholy sin was unspoken, foreshadowed in the words.
Her captivating silky hair were surely not washed of fain, but of something more cleansing something more, concentrated.
Soft silence on her tongue, emphasised her words because the rose she spoke of was never found anywhere, but smelled in her books which had no bookmark.
The brightness that highlighted dark, was traitor
It represented her unkindliness with grace,
What looked in her coy, was actually pride
And her trap shaped in a window to good times.
Her scent was morphine, her smirk another shot, her plead an order, her wish, motive.
With guilt formed wrong thoughts of her, with pleasure her image.
But she was someone wise, who carried a knife and killed with smile.
