Falling like icicles bent of destruction, sweat runs cold and responds with applause.
Ovation for fornication and a half-hearted embrace, pat-on-the-back at best.
She's playing chess with your synapses all over again.
Trickster, she is, but you so weakly fail to overcome her wily self.
For she knows what she wants, when you want the same.
And again and again you see that glimmer of glitter or whatever gets all over your clothes.
And you see the truth.
And it's empty.
Author notes
I don't know...
A contest entry
- Holy Reality by Asabouros..
675 points, ended March 11, 5 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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