Never were the nights so baffling,
With the air and dark, I keep battling.
Wondering how exactly I know the art,
The art of spoiling, be it mine or other's heart. The fear of unknown fears,
There's nothing which it not wears.
The guilt of being enrolled with the ones who hurt,
Is no less than the pain of who get hurt.
The remorse is unraveling,
The wounds are always ailing.
To explain, there's never a right time,
What the one besides the dupe feels in the meantime.
Being secondly hurt, how unluckily lucky I stand,
losing rights to vindicate and gulp all of it in my gland.
The bruises of heart are much racking than a welt,
Offender or dupe, pain demands to be felt.