It leaves a bitter taste,
that once succoring
kiss and play
between
two weeping willows.
Love isn’t impervious
to the arrows of time;
incendiary archers let fly.
Either these
will burn down our palace,
or ignite
our passions anew.
Lovers,
with a taste for bloodlust.
Warriors,
bred for battle.
Let it ensue
if it must,
the torrid melee.
Bodies twisted together.
Bodies rent asunder.
We fought through
scores of the Infidels
just to get this far.
So;
bring it on, fuckers.
HG – 2019