A wonder of why I cannot see love is conspired within the grasps of the one called Cupid.
As he is too blind, the ones he projects with ecstacy-tipped arrows are soon dumbfounded and blind to the treacheries of love.
I myself have fallen; the blood-spattered inculpapble.
Twice broken into a dark divide.
Bewitched by the desire, as passion is as lunacy.
If I can run, then I can hide beyond the memories held underoath by wretchedness.
A pain heavily secreted by defilers is felt and brought unto others with no intention.
As I have no intention to hesitate a taste of her on my tongue.
This moment might have been complete,
I only wish her picture was not painted blurred and blind.