Creative Writing: I, Porphyria

Be sure I loved. Be sure I loved

She – until our hearts did sever.

When she took her murderous glove,

Hatred pursued with frightful endeavour.

She dropped my hand, her love in vain,

Her whispered words sure to impale.

She promised me her sweet disdain,

A madness then did soon prevail.

I should have fought with force except

Her arms invited strange content.

She took my life and wrapped my neck,

This is what my love had meant:

She took my life with one death stroke 

And watched as yellow hair did choke.