He grinned like clouds ripping into dawn,

The ugly sisters and Cinders.

But the new one sparks with wit.

And a maze of double meanings

To mystify

and Intrigue and ravish

Without the slightest touch.

He was not my intention,

No pretension

But no toleration.

The third row centre

in the army of indie-clones.

There is no comparison

Between the sons of boys

And the Son of Suffering.

He holds me now

with no chains, only black little heart-strings

That were meant for me.

It was meant to be,

Elastic for pain, and divine for pleasure.

The young boy is gone.

He went home

long ago.

And I'm left with the Devil,

that I always wanted.