She bathes
her alabaster skin in the blood of deceit, allowing her pores to imbibe their
mid-day fill. But in her presence, sounds of pleasure doth cease, and drown in
a plume of gory red. She shall ne’er allow guilt to benumb her palsied hand.
Beware, for she arrives a young and noble gentlewoman draped in long locks of
red, but below her mirth and joy grey-torn ringlets wave.
She opens
her false heart and in her arms, will encompass you like a tender traveler. She
smiles in pretend friendship and will raise her goblet high. But keep watch for
dark and drab is the robe that wraps her form. She giggles while envy waves her
burning swords, she forgets to evince warmth and ceases to weep. At her altar,
she tends not to the bridegroom’s health, but to her hapless victim shower
alone. So, shun her fictious charm and walk past her aura, else blindness shall
leave thee forlorn.
-Johnny V.
No comments:
Post a Comment