Pretty words:
Small sweet platitudes of affection wrapping a core of
acid that burns like bile as they slide from your throat
to my ear.

Lovely song:
A serenade comprised of sweet droplets of sound, flitting
in a space that cacoons my senses only to find it is
discordant filth.

Beatiful mind:
Tasting of cotton candy, dripping with saccharine, I am
lost and remember little of who I was, only what I wish
was untrue.

Elegant lie:
The one saturated with truth, the nit in the otherwise
clean coat of your honour, the one I thought I saw and
is now blatant.

Exquisite betrayal:
Delicious phrases that almost snared me, though at the
last, I saw you, I knew you, I caught you, my peace, will
be your death.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Phaestian, in the year 648 AF.