Fatal Malady

Her love has all the malady romance
Can bring with it: the pastels and the flowers;
With charming pinks and scents in all the bowers
That she’d inhabit given half a chance;
Her love has all the left feet that a dance
Can do without: the dancing card that cowers
Unfilled, unloved, unwanted – all that powers
Resentment at success and every glance
She casts is filled with jealousy that preys
Upon her mind and fantasies devised
In the uncertainty; the agony
Is such that every grimace she displays
Can’t be concealed and cannot be revised
As her love sickens – fatal malady.