Like a warm knife through the butter of the soul,
The insect that scratches the ear drums as we watch love's lies lay eggs of waste
Till they're in the mouth of your mirror's reflection of fear
least someone should lie themselves into a care of this placebo of lust.
Till eyes turn against nature to the arid desert of exhaust
the emotional orgy to the mental climax of the unreal.
Descriptions of the void so vivid stirs a chuckle refusing to be hydrated with tears
Cynical text mid composition stirs the stomachs dragons....sighs
O how love's lies have caught us.
Copyright © Miguel Stapleton