Deceit in love is yet more foul than pain,
It is an evil that devours the soul.
Though Morpheus can make base suffering wane;
No potion yet can anguished hearts console.
No tears more bitter than of broken hearts;
No salve to soothe their aching misery;
No words of solace hopeful balm imparts,
Save somber prayers in vespered sympathy.
When potions fail and callous gods decline,
And plaintive prayers lay cold at heaven’s gate,
Malevolence shrouds joy in dark design,
And life assumes the blackest pall of fate.
True love, despite deep wounds, lives ever on,
But love not true, so smit—is ever gone.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.