It reaches into the darkest
Corners of your mind, compells
The heart to take control over
Every instinct of the Brain.
Suddenly the blood runs cold unless
It is heated, fuelled by the
Object of obsession, for some
Such as I it is the obsidian eyes
That promise such wit and loyalty.
Yet perhaps the slithery sarcasm
Or scathing sentiments are more
The point of obsession. But never
Mind, it is there again now, controlling,
Contorting your mind.


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