Wounded, but coming back for more, there’s no exit door, and the crowds look on and roar. It’ll all end up in blood, guts and glore

He’s anaesthetised, desensitised. He doesn’t seem to realise, that love cannot be franchised, like meat, to be tenderised. That dark need to dominate in response to her desire to captivate — she only found out once she was the bait; mesmerised by the swirl of the red cape

Blood and gold smell the same. New riches acquired, and then slain. She lies, believing the pleasure in the pain. He struts, and thrusts, she feels the sword again. Anaesthetised, tenderised, wounded, guts on the floor. Captivated like a bull believing pleasure is in pain. She lies, mesmerised, newly-slain. Bitter taste of blood, not gold, deep inside.

green pastures
only in memory
just the Sky is the same