There's No Prescription To Your Doom Poem by Mark Heathcote

She's a malady a physical illness.
You just can't cure.
There's no prescription for your doom.
Whatever you do, she'll still love you.

She's a malaise without surprise.
Your lives together are a conundrum.
But her eyes beguile you.
Woe betides you if she leaves you.

She's got a disorder with beguiling eyes.
She's a harbour in which no one spies.
Where a dozen shipwrecks lie
She's a sickness, the scurvy with beautiful
Blue contemptible eyes

She's a radiant siren.
'Won't anyone save you? '