Shall I compare thee to a rose's petal?
Or ought I compare thy to rotting trees.
I hast been told you compare I, as metal.
How audacious of thee, on my heart thy tease.
Thine shall be torn at the seams,
Because thee hast tricked and decieved.
Of what hast remain of my love for thine's dreams,
Thy lies shalt never be believed.
Ye who'st trusted in all they hear,
Shall suffer a slow death by ignorance.
Henceforth I shutter at thus twisted fear,
I hast perished from my innocents.
Furthermore, ye who'st been beguiled,
Shalt not once more, feel spilled.
©g.a.p
G