You did not think I knew you were untrue,
So crafted were the lines of your deceit
Yet reading in between, suspicion grew
As every day strange stories I would greet.
You did not hold me when I drew you near,
Your eyes looked through me with a distant light,
Each whispered kindness I might there endear
Now greeted with the chill of winter’s night.
What does one do when love’s great fire burns out?
Hearth stones bleed warmth ‘neath ashes cold and grey;
There all life’s sweetness burned, consumed by doubt
On ember ghosts where dream dead cinders lay.
Truth is the fuel the flames of love live on,
And what sustains when all love’s kindling’s gone?
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.