Show me a provocateur who didn’t love his life,
And you will look upon a liar.
Intent on spilling proof upon an innocent age,
A lesson that wouldn’t expire.

A Charlatan feeds on dispelling that which is of plain sight.
In order to burn the fingers of its writer.
On hope of enchanting a young maid,
Bound in crinoline and chicken wire.

Tucked away in the grace of moss chamber,
Stood a gilded cage of gold, sparkling amber.
Leafed and lacking the constant charisma of the secret its said to hold.
A trait that fitted and embodied a lark, so bold.

It is with mere partiality that I favor the tomb of the corrupt.
For what more can be said by an indulgent ghost on the pyre?
Quick to spark the flames that engulf him,
While dancing on the fire.

Inspiration is the cause for such dangerous things.
Unapologetic for the damage it wrought,
Without it, the world would be void of all imagining.
Even from the slightest of thoughts.

And now the fair maid is left in pain,
To hold a heart that was so freshly broken.
As her words died in her throat and her bodice is cut open,
Can she be allowed to sigh again,
Her passion so vividly woken.