Love.
What solace can it bring?
From withered heart to wasted moor
I have seen no such thing
I have seen what men call love
It makes me yawn
I have seen what men call love
It is nothing, but a con
Drawn and quartered our beings are made to be
As we hold ourselves hand in hand
A universal chain to bind us all
Into the Pit we all fall down
This placid, baleful thing
Vinegar to a parched mouth
Acid to an open cut
Penny shavings in a beggar's eye
An insect who dresses as a man
Walking amongst us, he satiates himself
A disguise so perfect in it's beauty
The horror of it's reality makes it sublime
Love is a mask
Love is a fiction
Love is a joyless plundering of another's soul
Love is the lie to conceal our chains from one another's eye
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