She is not love, she is not war
     but flames impassioned in the lore
     of the world in mirth and thistle crown-
     bona fide dour endeavour whittled down.

She is not love, she is not war;
     a familiar face in dreams of yore
     in the world where nightmares rage,
     the mellow touch of soothing sage.

She is not love, she is not war;
     soft heart listless in the core
     bleeding crimson, etched in agony
     of silent pulse in numbing ecstasy.