In which we give our hearts away
with to much ease.
You find a prince and expect to be
a love of slave.
When truth is your prince,
is little more than an arrant knave;
waiting to steal your all to precious soul away.
Which with your naivete,
has been taken from your grasp,
with little more than a gasp.
Corrupt your voice fades,
into the countless number of those before you,
blurred into a shade;
that were all charmed by
their own fantasies.
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