Woman, they say, is the devil—so cruel,
Yet such claims, it seems, are the words of a fool.
For none can deny the spell she may cast,
Binding the future, reshaping the past.

She brings peace to wars, yet fans the flame,
A spark ignites—she plays the game.
Desired in marriage, in passion, in art,
Her touch can mend, yet tear men apart.

The calm precedes the storm she may bring,
Her presence a symphony, her absence a sting.
Her charm is illusion, her power is real,
A pull so magnetic, impossible to conceal.

Men follow hearts and desires untamed,
Drawn to her fire, unafraid of the flame.
She knows how to lift, yet can lead astray,
Breaking us down, then remaking the day.

We are but puppets; she holds the strings,
Master of passions and countless things.
She offers comfort, desire, and peace,
Yet leaves us adrift in a sea of release.

Even in moments where wisdom should reign,
Passion overtakes us; we act insane.
Believing we steer the course of our fate,
We fall to her power, her plans, her bait.

She comes in forms both angel and fire,
A vision of beauty, or raw desire.
Her form is her weapon, her mind the blade,
Yet none can resist the art she has made.

And though she’s the storm that shakes my core,
Without her presence, life feels a bore.
Yes, woman’s a force, both devil and muse,
Yet she is the chaos I’d never refuse.