Dementors

There's a dementor around my waist
Who of my soul his claws make waste.
He buries his knife 'neath my shoulder blade
And to me all these sorrows bade.

With ice and fire he infects my bones
Til I cannot discern my home.
And unsatisfied with me unsettled
Gathers upon my feet these nettles.

He lays his lies in cunning net
Treacherous doubts they do beget
A burning kiss he leaves on lips
In happy dance he cause me trip.

I find joy when he doth depart
Turning my sorrows to thrilling art.
But it cannot last when he takes his leave
For wife of dementors I always will be.

How he wins wicked victory
I know by what cunning trickery
He steals the faith from lover's eye
And turns their mind from God on High.