Circe
From the shadows of the past,
A maiden has ensnared by heart.
Her hair red like a flame,
Flickering down her back,
Burns the hearts of all around her,
Her eyes are emeralds,
Set in the most beautiful stone,
And the coldness of it grips me in its arms.
My eyes follow her,
A willing slave,
I dance before my lady.
Her magic snares have me trapped.
Her voice is that of waves running,
To the ears of a man dying with thirst,
That kills him with longing yet he stays un-quenched.
Her sharp words bleed from eyes,
Yet blood and all I offer,
A willing slave,
To her tune I dance.
She is Circe,
The cold queen of my heart,
I know with her lies death,
I know her beauty is a trap,
A broken heart is all l will get in end,
Yet a willing guinea pig,
I am,
To all she does,
A willing slave,
To my beautiful stone lady,
A moth,
Ready to burn in her flame,
A man,
Ensnared to the core,
For her and her alone.
