How can you tell an adventurer and a sinner apart?
If not all those who wander are lost, and kindness isn't a form of enfeeblement—then the devil's tongue tells no lies. It can't speak of falsehood when it's too busy enchanting eloquence between your thighs.
If love is holy, romance is exquisite—then denial is a cure. You deny the devil's hideousness every time you get on your knees to savor his own venom. You admire the way his popped veins appear to be because you can clearly see the poison streaming through them and what a mesmerizing sight it is to witness.
You fancy the flavor of dark magic upon your tongue, the coarse tug of masculinity pampering your cascaded tresses and even the taste of his monstrosity. You'd give up your soul through a kiss to discover that the emptiness in your heart can only be a deafening tranquility—enjoyable all the way.
Everything forbidden shall remain desired till the arms of clock fall lifeless. For the devil's pastiche comes in swarthy colors, you must be transparent to savor the duskiness' voice. It's not about symphonies; it's every scream your chords would vibrate to ask for more.
And the devil is but a generous man.
