Ere Kiss a Sword

Place not a knife to your chest, my love: I shall not thrust it

through; but an arrow pierces armor, sword to sword,

wading through rivers. I know not where to run; for it’s

ever your beauty, breaking wall and door, a sword before our

kiss; but I hold you, palm to wound; and we love amidst a

war. You’ve lost such fever, where lovers dined for but a

week. I soon pose a quandary: to love without child, to kiss

without touch; but ever anew a tactile charm. It’s sudden—

an ambush, kneeling for chosen, a barn of souls set aflame.

You nearly die a death of self, but knife to neck the just to

flee. I gallop tear to sword and greet a knight—a woman’s

bow; but bone and carnage frightens not—a heart of war—

a spirit torn. We fight and fall a horse to bend, and ever a

soul ere a sword. I panic, leap and strike a foe—a world to

groan, a slipping life. Oh a love, a festive flame: the hope

and grief, the twists and pain.