The Death of Love
The death of love
burns briskly, bold, and bare
Consuming wintry woes with weathered wicks
That flicker in the darkness of despair
And paint but biased pictures of our picks.
That lack of love
needs nothing new to learn
As loneliness pervades its perfumed past
'Cept all the triflings that we might discern
From all that we o'erlooked in our love's cast.
The birth of love
renews us like the spring
And fills us full of hope and happiness.
Yet well we know that bell might start to ring
And mark our hearts again for surliness.
So on we go - meer
masks of measured mien
And pray our empty spirits won't be seen.
Cambridge, MA
29 April 2005