Gemmed golden chalice of your troubles,
poured slow and painful to share with me,
disgusting substance filled with bubbles,
ignoring my silent, cringing pleas.

Piking me with all your wailing woes,
you turned this carriage into a casket,
I love theatrics, but not this show,
like dead flowers in a woven basket.

Feast on the crickets of past love,
silently being eaten without protest,
a horrified, half-feathered gray dove,
twig by twig rebuilds her destroyed nest.

The glimpse of a dream, what could have been.
time forgets these golden chalices,
and the skeletons posed with their sins,
drank heavily from fountains of malice.

Love ages you, corrupts you, steals your youth,
grows on dead grass, and stagnant still breeze,
coiling lies and ever twisting truth,
long live the original fake tease.

Penned by my hand on the 10th of Phaestian, in the year 710 AF.