By JH Sayyar
What fragile trust we build with our hands,
A house of glass beneath the gaze of time,
Yet lies slip in like slow and shifting sands,
To stain the soul and sully love’s pure rhyme
The cheater wears a smile, a mask of grace,
But hides a dagger in a velvet sheath;
Deceit's soft whisper haunts the quiet space,
And roses rot beneath the lies' cruel breath.
Oh fleeting thrill! Oh hollow, stolen fire!
What joy is born from pain in other's chest?
A moment's gain, then ashes of desire,
And guilt that curls and clings beneath the breast
To cheat is but to cut one's self in two—
The heart you break may just belong to you.
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