No Pacts, Only Teeth
I met her in the dark, her breath like stone,
A predator carved from some vast unknown.
Her gaze a weight, a grave of quiet fire,
Unchained from what the mortal soul could own.
There are no pacts where lions tread the dust,
Their truth is claw and silence, raw and just.
Yet still, I stand, a fool before the shrine,
My blood a whisper, offering ash and trust.
Each word she gives is fanged, with edges sharp,
Her laughter hums, a brutal, hollow harp.
The ache inside me folds beneath her grin,
As though her teeth could sever guilt and harp.
No common bond; no mortal tie can weave
This force of ruin clutching hearts to cleave.
Still, from her weight, I breathe an alien calm,
A portrait burned in charcoal, fierce to leave.
Her truth is art, the savage kind, unbound.
I wear its scars, a silent battleground.
No treaties hold, no hand can tame her core,
Yet in her chaos, I find something profound.
There are no pacts where men and lions meet,
Our truths collide, a thrum, a lethal beat.
In mirrored fangs, I howl my darkest self,
And let her teeth consume my soul, complete.
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