When She Sold Her Innocence

By Jayden Taing

Fruitless thoughts led by lust,

Longing for the approach of the naive.

Knuckles of pale peach, stretching the fibres of the world.

Slowly, Slowly, transparent as the clock ticks by. 

A window to the monster inside,

Merged into flesh, nails of carelessness collide,

It does not matter whether life spouts from his palms.

Inconsiderate mind, why bring me here,

To lands void of decadent delicate romance.

Within the realms of malevolent men,

With their cold corpse-lit hands grasping toxins and potions of colours galore,

Where fiends and devils speak uncanny truths through sleeping whores

Lustful tongues that spit convincing trade from within shadowed alleys.

Here she sold her innocence.

With quiet lies she bit bullet after another,

Digging walls of earthen stone and clay,

Foot by foot she approached her early tomb.

Promises of valour, patience and oath, 

Since forgotten in pursuit of immediate gratification.

Sparks of pleasure violently humming through her every fibre,

Drowned by constant stimulation.

Those that feast, 

Those disregarded of all tones humanity—the recruiters of Satan as it stands.

Clearly, a sold soul cannot see the light

Of salvation, of purity, of learned youths.

He lived, a slave to desire

A pawn within her game.

She stood, ignorant to it all.

The Queen, blindsided to her own,

That cherished and loved her very core.

Her actions of regret, which both hope to forget.

When we stood, hand in hand,

With youthful minds, stupid and blind,

Her face was fixed in a solemn smile.

Satisfied with their collided lives

He lived, 

Naive enough to believe your lies.

Yet you devour childish gullibility.

Sterling silver, plated with dreams,

Scoffing at the very likeness of poignant faces—Stained bitter-sweets, cheeks rosy with streaked sadness

Yet, still her complexion maintains stable within the mind.

A focal centrepiece deserted by all emotion.

A mental remainder of the years and pains and loves and yearn and haunt and wish and-

And still, he denies the right to forget.

To move on.

Voluntarily, with a constant reminder scratching his skull.

Entreating the masters of cage and ruin,

For freedom, for acknowledgement,

For the possibility of when they reunite.

By Jayden Taing