Mon Cher Mephisto
I can smell the lies on your breath,
mon cher Mephisto,
as they flow from your lips
like honeyed wine of Borgias
The sweetness of arsenic is cloying,
oh Prince of Lies,
And there is no tart delight
Quite like a pomegranite seed.
I thought I lost you
In the dream-world once,
a fading whisp of memory
dissolved amongst the asphodel.
Yet here again you stand,
Rising out of bad omens and old shadows,
A drunken headache after revelry,
Pounding in the end of quiet night.
How can I speak? I cannot avert my gaze
Your tongue still flows like silver
And your eyes still shine like onyx,
twisting souls within your grasp.
I have few words, my dear Mephisto,
but I have taken you back upon my altar
with regard to all your thorns;
there is something satisfying in the sting.
But I cannot take you back, mon cher Mephisto.
I have other demons now to take your place,
no more for you are sacrifices made
of burning flesh and blood to quench your lust.
At a crossroad did I meet you,
all charm and good grace,
mon cher Mephisto, I am ever haunted.
I lost my soul in the chasms of your eyes.