Love is fickle
      A little trickle
             Down my neck, twenty ripples
                     Stirs a lake of stony silence
                 Blind indulgence
   Of forced acquiescence—
Runs a tangent
     Through my agent
             Of carnal truths, blatant pleasures
                          Tied in masochistic ebony
                   The sweetest disharmony
     Of poison wrapped in choice honey
Tipped inwards
      Trap little birds
            Flutter in prisons, dead in freedom
                                Wish for the chains
                      Of embracing pains
         And hopeless refrains
Steal the hearts
       That’s split in parts
               Selling fragments of a fake façade
                                  Hiding melancholy
                          In a folded alley
               Of childish folly—
    That cries again
          “Love is pain!”
               “Yet, it’s mine,” the heart maintains.