I have been cursed by the spell of Aphrodite.
No matter how much wrong you do,
I am a fool blinded by you.
You could drag my soul through the waters of Styx,
with a spell so powerful that it would delude me to think Tartarus itself was greater than Olympus.
I can no longer speak your name upon my lips,
for whenever I do, it is an incantation to you.

Yet no matter how much I curse your name,
I cannot help but to be in awe of your beauty.
Your mere memory itself makes me fall deeper into your spell.
I am a madman, longing for just a whiff of your perfume.
I curse your name, but in the shadows I worship you.
Never have I seen true beauty until I looked upon your face.
How I curse Aphrodite for working through the vessel that is you.

I writhe in its black tar,
gasping for air, as my own breath slips from my fingertips.
It seeps beneath my skin
and sinks its daggered claws within.

Darkness surrounds me, as I look one last time to the moon lighting the sky.
Only when I taste the kiss of death
do I seek the comfort of life.
Yet everyday agony takes ahold of me,
so in my last breath I inhale the void.

Peace was always a stranger to me;
my company was of suffering and solitude,
but now I shall lay my weary eyes to rest.
Maybe in another life agony will be a stranger to me,
but I can take her no more.

And when our corpses are six feet under,
I know our bones will find one another.
Rotting away through human decay,
our love is more than a mortal display.
I will take my bouquet from the flowers placed upon the graves.
With this cup, maggots in hand,
may the moon bless our matrimony far below the fleeting world of man.
The souls of the tombstones awaken from their slumber, as we profess our undying love for one another.  
Our spirits will dance among the deceased,
as we are wed,
rotting six feet beneath.

There is a
screaming
screeching pain
that is so raw.
It's like a
mouse caught in
a glue trap.
It must be locked
away for no one
to see or handle.

And sometimes
on moonless nights
when no one is
around, and the
owls have killed
their prey, and the
teardrops have been
bottled and sold on
the black market,
you may be tempted
to take that pain out,
like a slice of pie,
and taste it.
Be careful.
It may have
fermented and
developed a mind of
its own.

He kisses upon my lips,  
expecting an apocalypse.

Yet my heart beats dry when he looks into my eyes.
The closer he pulls me, the farther I push his touch away.
I try to speak his name,
but I moan yours in hopes of ecstasy.

The memory of you has branded itself upon my mind.
I long for the sweet nectars of your flower,
but instead I am stabbed by his sword.