Femme Fatale

My soul is sick, soon I will die
I seek the comfort of the grave.
I suffer from love’s malady
and may not have the love I crave.

I yield I am no longer brave
My love has made me cowardly
There’s little left that I would save.
My soul is sick, soon I will die

She spurns my love so easily
though I would be her willing slave.
Regarding me contemptibly.
I seek the comfort of the grave.

Her sins I readily forgave
although she acted wantonly.
I saw her as a soul to save.
I suffer from loves malady.

This love will be the death of me.
She sees me as a spineless knave
and so treats me disdainfully.
I may not have the love I crave.

She gladly took all that I gave
and played with me dishonestly.
I’m fevered now and left to rave.
She has no further use for me.
My soul is sick.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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