Song of Porphyria

Photo by Ellen Rogers

The storm was dark, he was no light; 
 the cold he did not warm till I
 lit fire in his cheerless grate and
 sat by him to thaw his frozen.
 He looked at me and saw a flame
 and that was when I saw him blaze.
 He whispered sweet my name and then
 I struggled just to breathe again.
 For then, his passion, long asleep, 
 burned hard. He fixed his eyes on me
 and kissed me as he took my life.
 He said no pain, yet pained was I
 for I loved him when I opened his door
 and I loved him as I breathed no more. 

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