My Dear, 

 

     Ripened and rotted, you’ve lingered      

                                                  long enough. 

 

I struggle now to pluck the stench from the  

              silk bedding, unwilling to admit

 

                     that you are just no good. 

 

It’s strange 

          

            how our lust defines us, 

 

                                       influences the abandonment

                                              of our preservation. 

 

Like a siren,

              peace abandons me

 

      and I’m left haunted by the 

                   admittance of your idle truth. 

 

You are what my mother warned me of.

 

A devil with his hand stretched out.