Treachery is the instrument of men,
According to the women scorned.
Conquering her beauty with his lust,
Is the mechanics of the divine within.
He is as emotional as she,
Her wrath more violent still.
Succumbing to the whims of nature,
Each one plays the part, given by the maker.
Him being cold and quiet, with heart of stone,
Her being hot and bothered, emotional to the bone.
They understand not one another,
For communication is a virtue among Angels.
All any of them knows is their wants,
Yet neither can see the lines of the angles.
Paths converge upon the lustful hold,
Both having pleasure offered and received.
Yet both operate with wiles of the future,
Even if there's no destiny of - them.
She seeks strength, and safety, though sweetness too,
He wants quiet and peace, for he knows rage well.
Neither complies with the other,
For compromise is a thing for wolves.
These creatures are not made for perfection,
Better to seek away from your ideal.
Usually the ideal is what's wrong for happiness,
For the lesser in the end, always becomes more.
This is the order of God, seek not the gains of the elite,
Contrarily strive for the simple, and in this life know peace.