Her angel figure wears a cloak
Of demons and enticing pleasures
That rest in silence to provoke
The mantle of elusive measures

And she escapes without a touch,
While blending shadows in her eyes
Evade my sweet romantic clutch
Beneath the star-filled winter skies...

But I catch not upon a whim
The footsteps rushing from behind
And there she stabs me in the limb
Without a conscience ‘pon her mind

But I love thee! Love thee, backstabber!
My death is sweetest by your part,
As you have brought your silver dagger
In weeping havens of a heart.