Flayed heart, blood all over,
Dripping over the paper,
Sitting under the shadow,
I write, and rewrite, my only poem.

The only cue is the guilt unsaid,
Frozen silence yet to be broken.
The worst of love is not to speak,
The best of love is never spoken.

That shameful days of our sin,
The unrefined feast of indignity,
Are enough for a narcissist to
Set the trap to satiate his own lust.

I wrote my poem, and set myself free,
For you to read and reread:
'Good n bad, Sin n virtue, true n false
Are traps set up by civilized beasts!'