A love in poem seems maybe the thing the devil would do.
His way of seeming cliche and therefor normal to you.
Speak of your lips as if they were supple, red like a flower.
Telling of how your words can take away all of his power.
Say how he would brush your hair from your face to see.
How no other true love before or after could ever really be.
A tale he would spill and say it was blood of his wanting.
The joy he weaves will distract from his lies of spawning.
In the short end the demons will know you a virgin no more.
Left fallen for the simplest of tricks left but a verbal whore.
The complex needs deep examination for truth to be told.
Along the lines of exacting and perspective more bold.
© Jeph Rants
Advertisement
