There is nothing so sweet as the bitter ode from a woman's tongue. She is the razor blade viper; an unearthly diversion. The meek bask in her unrelenting wrath. Her wares are the grotesque corruptions of long-forgotten gains. What the heart provides, she will nourish, and both will flourish. Yet, in the moment of abandon, that overseer will stumble and drive a knife into the chest. So what is the ruse? It's masked in rouge, and smells of perfumed corpses; a testament to the bygones. Because where the devil sleeps she sits upright, staring into the blackness of everlasting night.