Mystic


Masters of deception
and slaves to illusions.
Picture of beauty drawn by lines of lies.
In sweet singing birds,
songs of love I discern;
I turn as I churn this desire in me.

Vices are games of chance,
entraping the soul the more it commits.
What is your secret?
What do you hide in those disguises?
My curious eyes wish to unveil it.
But so is your heart more intentful
to keep it from me.
You reveal shadows with each of my advancing footsteps.
And lies are in your charms.

Yet, I remain satisfied with the thought of your kisses as anxious as I am as yet to receive them.
A murmur scarcely betrays my smiling faces.
My pride is like your intent,
I am but your fiddle, played to the song of your consent.

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