I dash lines down upon that placid page
Pure white, unstained, fresh torn from untouched book,
And strike point down my gall in black inked rage
Not sure of what you gave, or what I took—
Now in excusive verse I here confess
That hearts bewitched by ardor so attain
A fever of the soul that cannot rest
Until all hope’s desire lies burned in flame.
The deed is done, that pyre now ashes cold
While we reflect in angst all bearing there;
Of love or lust, our story not fair told
For who to judge in spite, what souls may bare?
They will forgive us, those who’ve truly loved,
The rest, perhaps these ardent lines may move.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.