Was it,
Really love?
Or,
An infatuation,
In your elysian eyes?

Were they,
Words of amor?
Or,
Aurate expressions,
Left, to be deloured?

My soul,
It's imbrued with ichor,
It's red.
Gushing red!

I'm impuissant,
The incarnadine turns stygian,
It's tenebrous around,
Your philippics, the only sound.

I'm in thore,
Infatuation it is,
An award;
Paramour.