Wandering as the lost tend to do,
She found herself in a maze.
She did not precisely know how many days
She had been wandering through this haze.
She only knew she had to get through.

She had to find the man belonging to the voice.
The voice as sweet and as thick as molasses.
The voice as warm as a summer breeze that passes
Through the church bells announcing the masses.
It did not seem that she had a choice.

Moving soundlessly, the ghosts of her past followed her.
Ghosts of promises broken and long forgotten,
Parts of her soul long since turned rotten,
Like leaves left on the ground to be trodden
  Trampled under her feet on the path to her lover.

She wondered how this mystery mister might be.
Would he have the grace and elegance of a dancer or that of a troll,
Who stands under the bridge collecting his toll?
Would he be towering or teensy like a mole?
She only hoped she would live to see.

Upon her, he had cast a certain spell.
A spell of longing and desire
That burned within her like a fire
That burns the witch tied to the pyre,
The fire that dances and swells.

Facing monsters and demons she thought herself brave.
She found the man whose voice was nice,
But soon her fire turned to ice,
For every sin comes with a price.
Her sin was deadly and ended with her in a grave.
 
So in the end,
it was not pride,
  it was not vanity,
it was not sloth,
  nor greed,
      nor wrath,
nor envy that killed her,
but lust confused for love.
      A raven compared to a dove.