Is not love a dual-faced pretender?
One that tricks thee to laugh and weep the same?
To She who dares not kill - fears not to maim -
Still yet we offer sanctuary. Hers
Is poison divine; that ivy creeper
Gropes our hearts and draws forth the Shadow Dame.
Masque stained ruby red from devotion’s pain,
She taints blind bliss with dark doubt’s bitter curse.
For are not Love and Hate much the same? Does
Not Love bestow that which Hate tears apart?
In Her anger, She breaks that which She knows
She creates, for this artist loathes Her art,
The magnificence woven from Her own
Longing: The Jekyll and Hyde of our Hearts.
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