Love is the dagger that twists in your spine
It can make you feel the pleasant release
And taunt you with loving smiles so benign.
The fly in your soup, the offcenter crease
It can make you shrivel inside like dust
It can drown you in sweet admiration
But truth is not truth unless told with trust
To an unsteady, crumbling foundation
The darkness inside you thrives softly, strong
For under Love's sick sweet spell you are crushed
Arrows made of thorns, if left in for long
Will hurt until your life away is brushed
Because love is the pretty poison well
That brings its dead drinkers down into hell.

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Ios, in the year 117 MA.