"BEWITCHING"


She need not have died,
A wretched soul cried,
It is I who should burn,
Twas me with the yearn.

Bewitching, yes indeed,
She carried my own seed,
Planted it was by mistake,
So burn me upon thy stake.

Unbeknownst was she,
As she smiled sweetly,
With soft cherry lips,
Raising her own hips.

For my sweet love I cry,
Now watching her die,
Ablazed with the fire,
Flamed by my desire.

Burnt flesh I do smell,
Smoke filled eyes swell,
As I cast myself on thee,
Scorched into eternity.


Belda J. Lynds  ©