The demon stowed amidst angel wings,
Flaunts an unaffected gait, treading o’er embers of her kings.
Her smile, a fallacy of warmth. Her kiss, a hollow oath.
Though she speaks of a sage, a martyrdom she sculpts;
Feigning love and desire, yet in her own heart, never raged a fire.
Always of lust, never of love. Passion for, “None of the above”.
None grand as the blaze which I’ve stoked to life in my own.
And none grand as the infernos doused by her rein of preconceived notions…
SHE is a temptress with an angelic guise; the inevitable fall from emerald eyes.
The Way it Goes 