In the realm of ink and paper,
where words weave dreams anew,
A heart once bold and tender,
now tangled up in blue.
She danced on lines of prose and verse,
with grace both sweet and sly,
His whispers held the writer close,
beneath a moonlit sky.
With eyes like stars, he drew her in,
a spell cast with his gaze,
A siren's call in every word,
a labyrinthine maze.
He spun a web of silver threads,
of promises and art,
And in the web, the writer lost
the compass of her heart.
She penned his beauty, night and day,
in verses rich and deep,
Unveiling secrets of her soul,
in letters he would keep.
But every sonnet, every rhyme,
was met with fleeting care,
A fleeting smile, a hollow laugh,
a cold and empty stare.
For he, a master of deceit,
would use her gentle hand,
To craft a world where he would reign,
a king in shadowed land.
Her kindness, like an open book,
he read with shrewd delight,
And used her trust to write his tale,
then vanished in the night.
The ink now dries on pages torn,
where love was once a theme,
The writer sits with empty heart,
awash in broken dreams.
No longer fooled by honeyed words,
she sees his tricks and guise,
Yet still she clings to every lie,
the truth behind his eyes.
Desperation clouds her mind,
she cannot bear the pain,
Of seeing him for what he is,
and breaking from his chain.
For though she knows the bitter truth,
and feels the aching smart,
She can't let go, she won't let go,
the hold he has on her heart.
In the end, the lesson fades,
amidst the tear-stained art,
Beware the one who plays with words,
and gambles with your heart.
For though the pen is mighty and
The love a timeless lore,
A heart that's bruised by cunning schemes,
can trust in words no more.
