Love
Is but a putrid word
Carved with the edge of a stone
Sunken into the flesh of the ground.
To invert it
On the flesh of a human
Is to mutilate
The very soul.

A soul
born with childlike wonder
torn and tainted
by the lust that grips the heart
and the lips over its own.

Eyes controlled
by the body
Bloodied and battered
By its own desires.
Eyes mist.
Eyes die.

A thriving spirit
Lost within itself.
Murdered by its own hand.
A sunset,
The ethereal colours,
Destined
To fall into blackness.
 
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