Femme Fatale Poem by ivor or ivor.e hogg

My soul is sick, soon I will die
I seek the comfort of the grave.
I suffer from love’s malady
and may not have the love I crave.

I yield I am no longer brave
My love has made me cowardly
There’s little left that I would save.
My soul is sick, soon I will die

She spurns my love so easily
though I would be her willing slave.
Regarding me contemptibly.
I seek the comfort of the grave.

Her sins I readily forgave
although she acted wantonly.
I saw her as a soul to save.
I suffer from loves malady.

This love will be the death of me.
She sees me as a spineless knave
and so treats me disdainfully.
I may not have the love I crave.

She gladly took all that I gave
and played with me dishonestly.
I’m fevered now and left to rave.
She has no further use for me.
My soul is sick.