Aug 5, 2021
Blood Sport
A rare love it is that is not a blood sport,
arrows meeting arrows cast knowingly,
plunging into tender skin, so mortal,
slicing vital organs to motley…
Fools, they, who fall hoping for paradise,
garden of felicity, convergence;
each fall instead a throw of dice,
weighted wager, freighted with urgency.
Will one find their lover uxorious
or war-like in mien, bright sword poised to strike
as habits of living grind, injurious,
softly bleeding dry that which youth so liked?
Love, you know we have used each other ill
and now lie wounded to death from our spill.
