Love is a crucible
A wonderful place of heat
Where things melt
And is mixed by a despot

The crucible is a battlefield
A melting mortar and pestle
Where people cry
And feelings are brought to die

The battlefield is fresh hell
A perfectly chaotic domain
Where fondness and hate fight
And no one is sure who or why

The hell takes prisoners
A desposed of people
Where behind silver bars you quiver
And inmates are only more you

The prisoners are you
A human with unfortunate emotion
Where every face is you
And the one on your mind is warden

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