The bereaved soul of a marksman,an infinite torture,
The master’s whip,a mirage of pleasure becomes the delight of leeches;
And the pleasure of deceit is the future squealing of a con.
Betrayal is like a spike behind the culprit waiting to eviscerate,
Web of lies will eventually play the sound of the butcher’s knife.
A cheat is a peat that gives a treat to below the feet.
Infidelity is a sweet art,but a short road to madness;
A thief looses bits of him as he collects his loot.
We are the precursors of our misfortune,in a world of mystery,
Where the pungent odour of our environment is sweet and pleasant,
Many choices, many decisions, many actions, but only ONE LIFE.