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In searching for a heart of gold, 
with standards higher than I deserve.
I lost my way.
Lost sight of the truth, what would truly make me happy.
I imagined- the mold, the form she should take and shape it's core. 
The possibility, like a mirror image, 
showing fantasy, awards.
To the reader of other people's mail,
their unspoken words, in telepathic Braille.
The bleeder, cut by s word.
Self pushes the envelope further, open to see what comes out.
Is it faithfulness and purity?
Anthrax?
Mail order pride.
An invoice of taxations.
A house of paper built to burn, fueled by lies.
Consumed unto doomed to failures expectations, waxed wings of Icarus, too high to fly.

I use it as a ballast-guide false in it's stability in my house of cards.
A retreat to hide, insecure, but obvious, in my designs.
Carding intentions and motivation.
Kindling friction but not that of true flames zoning laws or jurisdiction.

Masochism, you know, is not allowing yourself to be loved.
But to wallow in the mud of being snubbed.
To allow the perversity of abuse
to scapegoat a self tied noose.
Not a good foundation.
It is fool's gold.
It is a broken vase.
It is poison.
It is a broken home, a cold case, tomb.
It is being burned in perdition's fire.
Burned by evils rune, 
the charm of liars.

Pure gold is purity- in -trusting another's heart to be true.
Knowing that that is enough.
Not putting expectations so high on a pedestal that it takes on dust.

Why would a true heart not be enough?
Does she not look a certain way?
The way the voices say, she may?

When lies and idolatry infiltrate
and whisper of false things.
When you listen to them.
Mentally masturbate upon it's
reflection.

When selfishness spreads like a cancer over faith and trust, and gratitude.
When you lose sight of what is worthwhile, of real value.
Then you turn into a Midas, a Rumpelstiltskin, a Judas.
Letting the true flame of integrity and humility dwindle.
Not a kindred spirit kindled.

All that glitters isn't gold.
Remember, that pride is the first sin.
A place to build pedestals in.
Reaching to the heavens in defiance,
appliances,
reliance's.
Your personal stairway, within a maze.
Amongst lies incense.
Remember.
While being impaled on spires spindle.
As the seasons grey.
Remember.
It's not the freshness of Life's breath.
It's a goodbye to romance.
Middle finger to Innocence.
It's the kiss ?? of death.
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