Love, a fleeting memory in time,
A scattering of barren desert sand
A poem, beyond reason, lacking rhyme
She's fool's gold... slipping through an empty hand
She brandishes an iron whose lava flows
To rivers that by nature surely part
Alone each one emits a fainter glow
Why has love stamped her cross upon my heart?
She masquerades as crucifix or crown,
distinguishes herself as the hand of fate.
She claims your heart when your defense is down,
then changes fast her name to that of Hate.
Tamara Beryl Latham