"I cannot abide by the rules that seem to strike us both with the utmost of cruelty.
You seem to bite your tongue and submit to the snake,
that holds your translucent throat captive.
Oh, hark, Solace!
The truth you speak are of mere lies,
that the mistress fed you with the silver spoon.
You sit upon that throne, but you are nothing of the sun's descent.
Perhaps Death would hark at every syllable that sings from the prickly tongue of yours,
lodged deep in your spindle.
Indeed, I pry the question of why,
bewilderment upon this idea of liking.
Shall it be infatuation or a true love of sorts?"

"My dear, why must Death hark at this hour?
He is at rest, for he fears the God that you descent of.
My dearest, I cannot compare thee to that sweet honeycomb, or the day of Spring's peak bloom.
My hands are not of silk,
yours are of a fine thread, spun by the Moirai.
Shall I hark? The your ears do not lack beats of sound.
When we collide, it is heaven on hell.
My sin on your divine purity.
I shall not succumb to the works of Him,
but if only regards to you.
They say it is a curse,
that our fates may never align,
but truly, hark, Sorcerer!
We are destiny's tears."

"If you must utter one word,
I may even lose my morals.
It is not fate — rather your blinding lust.
I convince myself to not fall victim to you.
Alas, convincing as like the hammer striking a diamond.
Indeed, I have seen more paupers brighter than you.
And mice who speak of good tone.
But my heart cannot release the anguish to defy those wishes of acceptance, and instead to face a despondent rebellion.
So, if you may hark, I shall say:
Shut me up, Solace, and just fucking kiss me already."