In the infernal land called Love,
where “friend” is the cruelest word,
and creates hell its own thereof,
sanity alone is absurd.
Here, diamonds dull within Love’s dirt,
rubies blue at each fleeting flirt,
and demons mock angelic ruse
with pointed tail and pyrite muse.
Every sight, a fictive fairy,
winged furies that seek to enslave,
at best, but propense to bury
truth in a frostbite-blistered grave.
But the sooted and smoky shades
that harrow each harried thought
are echoes harsh and hardy made
of blissful mist and baleful brume sought.
Sculpted reflections wrapped in sable,
knitted knots of forgotten fables,
mask the eyes in inked confusion
with white rapture and gold illusion.