Cupid Painted Blind

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.


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