The words that you enslaved,
Made unwilling accomplices,
In your game of subterfuge and shadows,
As you continued to weave,
Strands of fiction overlapping,
With masterstrokes of different hues,
Your Stygian motives painted cerulean,
Sugar on your short stories.
Your eyes were obliging,
With their talent for deception,
A picture of phantasmagorical lands,
Tales of unreal realms, picturesque,
But as ethereal as the universe,
Falsified, of your short stories,
The pink blossoms that never bloomed,
Promises, empty and fragile, insincere,
Like honey that coated your lies, and
Sugar on your short stories.
The revelation was agonizing, wretched,
Existence was labored and unconvincing,
Reality did not have sheen of fiction,
Neither the allure of your short stories,
Each moment a memory of mistake,
Time a ponderous, maladroit enemy,
While heart yearned, no, craved for,
Sugar on your short stories.
