If her lips taste sweet,
Why does her tongue taste sour?
Yet I become delicacy,
To this girl who devours,
This girl of irises mud and dust,
This girl who in pride wears rust,
A house of beacons,
A soul of horde demons,
She crafts words sourly,
With a mouth so lovely,
A golden chest of defects,
A breathtaking garden of insects,
She is all that I should not be,
Yet I never flee,
Graceful like a mare,
A precious nightmare,
She's a vine of rotten grapes,
Yet the rot is how wine is made,
Kraken under the sea,
But I wish never to escape,
I've nailed my coffin shut,
Six feet in the grave,
Her love may be fierce,
My love though, is brave.
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