Falling back on shards of metal,

purely fine work from a mischievous devil,

Have you placed those tentacle fingers tracing my clavicle?

Dance rhythmic enflamed tones in revels,

speeding pulse as like charges simmering within kettle –

He hasn't the best of intentions,

prefers wicked hearts invention –

Pesky steward demons tousle mind,

wreck and chaotic inside,

trick thyne roaring eyes,

never giving an inch to release the cries –

Someday.... we shall come to blows.... just you and I!

on"4\3|