He is made of battle armour
And sharply edged swords,
But she doesn’t mind.
She has fields of flowers
At her disposal.
She has dripping hearts
To spare.

She wants the heat
And the fury of a war.
She wants the passion
Required to kill.
After all, war and love
Are not quite so different
As they might seem.

In both, you offer up
Everything you have,
And emerge on fire,
Less whole than you
Once might have been.
In both, you burn
And you bleed.