The death of love
Sad is the man who mourns the death of love,
Feels inside the numbness of its passing,
On his sodden hat pittering from above,
The tears of fallen angels amassing.
Sad is he, for the emptiness inside
His heart and soul seems without start or end,
A vacuum is all that does reside
Within his breast. His world, his life was rent
Apart by she who seems to careth not
Whe’er he breathes or has fallen into dust,
But breathe he does and whilst his wind is got
And comes in ever greater blow and gust,
It feeds the smould’ring ember of his heart,
So he sits and starts to scribble down his art.