Slender and shattering like the fresh washed, filthy glass of blood-red wine,
She consumes like air from the cup like the soul from my body,
So vehemently intrigued by her form and grace, inherently good in image yet
Satanic in intention
Running on like the longest sentence, putting a man away in her blood-soaked silver jail,
Sweet smells drifting in through the bars of the outward looking window,
Feeling backwards and distraught by the locking doors and the ring they tie around my innocent finger,
Who could not see outside of the tunnel, or know worth beyond why worth is defined
