| Written: SEPT 29, 2003 |
Delicate little hands,
Like that of the rest of you.
Small, unassuming, trustful.
A gentle caress of the arm,
Like the bond of brothers,
Were a touch is not shied from;
Insidious semi-embraces,
Melting our shields to others.
There the dastardly works begin,
With fingers slipping within to
Work that horrid betrayal.
The dark magics of us,
Turning insides for pleasure;
To play simply with others,
Bend their emotions, steal
Away their heart and see.
How are they now, laying
In pools of sorrow, regret.
Lost in innocence at your deeds,
They know not why they come;
For again and again you will do it,
But so lovable our torturer
That we will not separate from you.
Come again with your malice,
Tugging on heartstrings
As easily as grandmothers’ yarn.
Come to caesarean us all,
And smile with bloody fists;
Speaking of friendship and kindred,
Yet gutting us all for your viewing.
We all love you from our own disgraces,
Awaiting the next gentle caress.
Tangled within our own entrails,
We have woven your love about us.
