Deceit in love is yet more foul than pain,
It is an evil that devours the soul;
Dark 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 can sweet hope impart,
Save somber prayers to gods of sympathy.
When potions fail and callous gods decline,
Beseeching prayers lay slain at heaven’s gate,
Malevolence all precious joys entwine,
And life assumes the blackest pall of fate.
True love, despite of wounds, lives ever on,
But love not true, so smit, is ever gone.
©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.