So driven wild here by your winsome form,
The devil’s hound bent on a scented run,
Bestial, raw-red, purposed, raging storm,
There not to be denied ‘til prize be won.
Fearless, ferine, and not by reason bound,
Courage infused from some primeval past;
Logic undone, tight spindle there unwound,
Web-tangled twine but to the soul entrap.
Folly divine there ne’er to be denied,
Malevolent madness mocking piety,
Desire unchained, no conscience to abide—
To have, to hold…to conquer utterly.
Then spent of passion, done, sweet glory gained;
Brief spate of pride, but now by guilt arraigned.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.