She bled a living red, her tears were salt;
She felt the paper cut of poetry
In images of love she found no fault,
White heart worn on her sleeve for all to see.
Serendipity brought her to my realm,
She’d read some lines somewhere, sometime before
Though not enough her soul to overwhelm,
But yet sufficient to unlock the door.
This meeting more than chance, it were to seem,
She was so seeking there my arms of verse
And in a moment, like some peasant dream,
She did my doubts of love sweet there inverse.
So now, in blackest ink, ensconced in rhyme,
We live on ever in this rune of time.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.