She bled a living red, her tears were salt;
She felt the paper cut of poetry…
In images of love she found no fault,
And proudly wore pulsed crimson on her sleeve.
Serendipity brought her to my realm,
She’d read some lines somewhere, sometime before
Though not enough her soul to overwhelm,
Yet still sufficient to unlock love’s door.
This meeting more than chance, it were to seem,
For she sought solace in soft arms of verse
And in a moment, like some pleasant dream,
She did my doubts of love and time inverse.
So now in ink, here still ensconced in rhyme,
We live forever as a rune of time.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.