I creep in peeks as I seek for her psychic like a sheep who weeps because in her heart I can't reach the peak. She's covered in Greek mystique, sweeping my tricks with her lips until she leaves me completely weak and sneaking to her in my sleep; as to her, I'm just another freak she needs to reap.
And if she wrecks my ships like a siren in Asteria's creek, I have to strip my whips to keep my hips dripping and maybe grip her wrists in a sweet script. I want to put her Venus in eclipse and build my crypt in her Aphrodite's gifts, but I know these kisses are just myths because she wants men as love imps, so it's up to me to dip deep into the Styx and take her stars out of my Nix.
But I'm still kicking this linguistic since I lost my sophistic in this fatalistic precipice made by a romantic terrorist. So I guess I'm an artistic cynical always craving her deity as I curse myself with this hedonistic guillotine because I'm the bleak she wishes in her dreams, but built with the wrong bricks... Just don't give me criticism when the wick is lit too close to the whiskey.
If it's a sin to feast in her heat, then I'm ready to fight priests. She's a beauty, and I'm a beast; we could be Aphrodite and Dionysus watching the sun coming in the east because, for her, I'm already leashed.
