A Book Of No Definite Title Poem by Adams King

My son, a woman is like a book
with no definite course nor tittle
Today she can be no crook
next day with heart bent and subtle
Trust not her chameleon looks
here she's green there's she's purple

She comes humbly like a prey
A victim of heartbreak and pains
to win your better heart and pity
and entrap you in an emotional treaty
Like an angel of softness she comes
Two steps in time the devil she becomes

She's a wine meant for the moment
by tomorrow she will be your loss
She regards no sacrifice nor gains
Your good deeds like a spec of dust
tomorrow she cleans you off
like tears wiped by a handkerchief