A draft

Last night as I lay silent in sweet sleep,
Astarte poured a curse into my mind.
Her cruel display into my dreams did seep:
A love unparalleled; fleeting; divine.
A siren that I've spied in waking lights
But never met (I’m sure I never can)
Clasps at my hand. Her gaze a kiss invites,
And through this act our souls meet for a span.

But soon I rouse, my vision blurred by tears,
Remember loss, and shut my eyes in vain.
Though I might live another eighty years,
Awake, how could I find such love again?
        Thus here I lie in bed, no more to weep,
        And soon, I pray, she’ll lead me back to sleep.