The Death Of Love Poem by Nan Williamson

the death of love

Right off, we knew it was precarious:
two families torn apart for years.
Headlines screamed of turf wars,
knifings, fire bombs, slow-burning hates.

Somehow, the lovers found a secret space
where burning lips and eager hands
made love, only the stars to hear
the nightingale's blue song.

One last night, hot limbs intertwine,
meet like fire and powder,
kiss of white flame leaping,
strength to face the morning lark.

We know how it was compelled to end:
photos flashed - two youths slain
in gang fight, lovers' suicides.
Shakespeare was not one to show
romantic love, intense, ideal,

killed by compromise and time.
Of course, the lovers had to die.