Love is such a hollow thing, The exchange of vows, For a golden ring. So ritualistic is this practice, We repeat, relive, relapse, If only to distract us. Is it not just the call of lust, The desire the subconscious lets speak; Why d'we allow toxins to shape our trust? If I fall into this trap— Let it be a waking dream, Allow my mind to paint a vivid map! If I'm granted that pure gift—true love, Let it be in blissful ignorance, Every moment held in a scarlet glove. When it ends, it ends the same, Thousands of needles filled with forlorn We who choose to partake—on us is the... blame.