Her looks did kill me, and I was so slain,
Though love, not hatred, loosed the arrow there;
I clutched my virtual breast, as though to feign
A mortal wound had spilt blood with a stare;
Perhaps she saw the pallor in my face—
Heme drained, in pain, beneath the victor’s gaze,
I bowed my head as though in sad disgrace
Though truth be known, my spirit was upraised;
But die I did, and I surrendered sweet,
Both heart and soul into her loving arms;
Her mouth on mine restored life’s rhythmic beat,
And I recovered full, quite free from harm.
From time to time, afflictions still return—
Her lips touch mine, and frailty does adjourn.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.