Love is the pack of lies
That belies
The cries
Of Wicked beneath Our Flesh


Love is the 'sick surprise'
Of a 'special guise'
For a sin that Never Dies . . .

Love is a Systematic
Enigmatic
Automatic
Weapon
Of Destruction.

Love has a concise definition
It's objective is the mission
Of emission
Of Heart poisons to force you unto submission

Love is the lack-luster emotion
That demands, that require utmost devotion

Love is an age-old tale
Of stale
Words that flail
Their hints in the guise of a vicious veil
That conceals, that muffles the wail
Of a gale
In the hail
Of Hell
That carries the melodies
Of lulling rhapsodies
Of a painstaking
Heartbreaking
Spell
Of psychological dolor
The Sin Never Dies

The Love I see
Is the creature that be
The first and last
The very outcast
Of all expression
Without discretion
The Sin Never Dies


Love is a miasma
A malodorous, malignant miasma'
The red and pink arrows that make sparks fly
For some such things make live go awry
Still the sin can never die.

The Love of which we speak I say
Is the thing that keeps Our Peace at bay

The Love I know
Upon us what Our Hearts Bestow
As a substitute for real passion
Love is like a pile of withered Mayflow'rs ashen

The Love we feel
Is the 'IT' that'll steal
The depth of a Soul away
On a Spirits as a crust it dries
Hardens
AS the Sin That Never Dies