The Writer.

To love her is to chase illusion,
Elusive, Elegant and Bleak.
The wolf, the ripple. Alabaster.

Revel in her while you may.
For just to look upon her,
Is to make love among the damned.

To lose her is to weep, in opulence.
To rest upon the precipice of doom.
And close your eyes amid the tempest.

Her kiss is golden, saccharine and bitter.
Her eyes enchant, enthral, ensnare.
Tempting. Ever closer to the void.

And in her gaze, the whirling maelstrom,
For she seeks only to devour.
And oh, how I would let her.

To worship her, in all her spiteful Grace,
Is to bow at the feet of truth.
And to Relinquish. All that you are.

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