A Cruel End Game
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From the dark side of Love
She was the nadir of affection
like a scorned lover, hell bent on revenge.
She was still like a fresh flower, sensuously perfumed,
a sight for sore eyes, lips full, inviting, titillating;
body curved in the right places, tall and bright.
He was told she was once jilted
by the beau of the town,
now hell bent to wreak havoc of men
who unknowingly feel her black spider's charm.
He was not known to her, he was not introduced.
So it was easy to ignore her, despite the warnings
of his soul. For did not his heart beat faster?
And adrenal flow in quantities above norm?
Did not his body stiffen, his knees jerk?
Yet he remained aloof, played hard to get,
knowing that was the way to beat her down.
He had no magic or dreams to weave,
no moon dust, mystic herbs or love potions,
only his determination and wily will.
For they were as alike as two mountain peaks
covered with hard white snow and tricky paths,
dangerous slopes and impeding avalanche.
Perhaps the predator savors more the chase
for it pleased him much the play of hide and seek.
She began to notice and he was yearning more
than was really good for him.
Until the day arrived when they looked into
each others eyes and knew the outcome of the game.
Gone was the last speck of hope,
the shred of possibility, the promise of a new love
loomed like a giant glacier and the dice was cast.
The deadly demons in them were loose.
Idyllic days passed sensuously by, a farce of fervor.
He had to save himself for her clutches could hurt,
claws that could cut deep within the soul.
So like the knave he was, he slinked away
left her to her own devices and saved his pride.
She was not easy to forget, he dreamt of her often,
nor was it easy to forgive himself, especially when
he heard the news that she had killed herself.
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2019