silver-tongued affections burn with appraisal;
the deepest shade of love burns with an autumn’s beauty
and the intricate, dream weaver
of lies–feeds the black widow
who lies in wait, for the men and women
who thrill on the treacherous age of
the awakening and shifty conscious.
Deep rooted, terra-tethered to rotting filth
of fermented tales of wasteful woe,
may the ones who
feed off the broken eyes of his or her victims
the modern day incubus/succbus–
sucking at the dreams and hopes of others
they dress themselves in the tears of their victims–
coated in slick grief and insidious passions,
they spread their folklore of lies
bards of the new degree–
they practice their craft
with a Monsieur Meursault ease
and a Victor Frankenstein archaic ambition.
The festering wounds they leave
spreads like a republican wildfire–
leaving disbelief and empty eyes in its wake.
may the liars who are currently
perfecting their craft–
burn, baby, burn.