The Succubus

A longing for someone to love.
It flutters within as a dove. A heart so sweet, more than a rose.
It cannot be expressed in any prose.

But must we fall unto the
damned, unto the dead?

Or is it by she we are
tempted, we are led?

Onto the glorious ladies sheets,
and into the grim ladies bed.

She wraps about us an intricate
blanket woven of lost souls.

Soon after, the conception
of her deception will take its toll.

For once she has feasted on us
she will leave without a whisper or a tone.

Our hearts not but an empty hole.
We will then be utterly alone.