In-Field Killer

Armed in rouge and a baroque persona, She - ever calculated- now had dressed in deceitful love.

And he was deeply in love; hopelessly deep...

And hopelessly loved. 

He was the stunning superlative of a natural inamorato; graciously touched and admired in whole. 

He was the muse of light, feathered consciousness in the sphere of doubt.  A virtuous spirit, he had once not felt the blossom of seduction.

He was in love. And she was dubbed Fate. 

She, dubbed Fate, and her brilliant poison was a fickle-hearted demeanor. 

She did not obliterate the hearts of grievous forbodings; 

in fact, quite the contrary. 

Twas Fate and the kindred of affection that melted a lover soft and unwary.

Her bluff- he could not convict.

Forsakenly rough and tried in passion, Fate had clamored high-headed; unparallel to the despairing betrayal.

Beds were nights, and nights were spent in beds. She did not deem one as her own, and his bed was not hers. 

He was a flower- acutely rooted in unquivering color.  

And she, a pollinating bee, quested succulence in honey. A bee unsatisfied died, but she was Fate, and she was thriving. 

Loyalty; his tragic flaw. His nature of imperfection danced around her like tease.

She was damned to be locked in the arms of his safety, but stupid, she was not nor never.

Startling vividness was the covenant of Fate, and startled she was no longer.

At least not in the arms of him.

She did not feel selfish in temptation, neither in cheat.

She was compelling and craving;

She was Fate.