Ah sweet flower, why do you bring me pain
Midst gentle fragrance and a softer touch?
What cruel pleasure does such feat attain
To see me suffer sweetly—and so much?
This tortured triumph by a lover’s hand
Is anguish far beyond the tyrant’s reach,
And love directed with such false command
Does soon in time its fairest promise breach.
Thus you, in wayward love do somehow take
The best and brightest of my fondest dreams,
While in soft hands a kinder heart you break
With sad untruths that do true love demean.
Still, if you must weigh blame, state this my fault:
Say that his blood was red; his tears were salt.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.