Passing by the factory of your dark and tortured love,

endless in its spite and power of denial of pure sanity,

corruption of your soul that must be over thrown by powers of the unforeseen love I have for you,

perhaps in figments of my own imagination,

for the love I have for you is that in which your heart has yet to except,

but I have yet to forget the tender hold of your gaze upon my body to which I we’ll forever hold dear