You prayed so hard while we made love

but love did not came from above,

it is a trade, in bed it’s made

as far as you cared anyway then.

.

The moves, the moaning and the end

an arcade of some bodies bent

a violent action following erection.

.

To you that was what made the trade.

You came and thought that love was made,

you called it:  heavens satisfaction.

.

Your  love was not sent from above

as you would throw me down to earth

and made this trade an act of dirt.

.

How could you call this making love

when you wanted to pay me off

the truth was more than you could bear

.

You left in tears and went somewhere

you had enough, I didn’t follow.

The trade of making love is just an art of sorrow.