What’s in a face?

When crooked lines divulge your true passions.

Is that smile one of mischief or merry?

Your eyes speak flashes of cruel unusual hatred unbefitting of your beauty.

You must be a cruel master of men, then,

For the tricks your image plays leave no defense unbroken.

What have you done?

What treacherous acts mar those glorious brushstrokes?

Your crooked portrait sends shivers up the spine.

How could an angel so wrapped in glory become this creature of hell?

But, alas,

I think your majesty makes it all worth it.

To gaze upon such a glorious figure,

So young and fleshed in gold,

One could forget the men who go missing.

Because really,

How could those gentle hands and those promising words cause pain?

How could they cause pain other than the wish to have them praise you?

So, ignore the red flags.

This beautiful enigma makes us starve for the aesthetic.

Yearn for the passion.

Crave the fire.

We are in love.

So pray,

In the end,

That karma falls for you too.