The End of Love

Frequent tears have run
The colours from my life.

So weeping did I witness
The ethereal figure.
His voice was as cold
As the hand that held me.
“Guess who it is that holds thee!”
“Death, for surely naught else should be
So frozen nor so lonesome”
But there, he did reply,
“Not death… love…”

How I wished it had been death!
Here to bring me swift repose.
But love? Nothing could be
Quite so torturous as a heart
That beats,
Punctured by a hundred thorns.

Betwixt faint cheeks – a smile
Emanated an uncomfortable warmth
Where a fire once burned.
He would spread his wings
But for the burden of my heavy heart.
A flawed view of heaven;
Exchanged for earth

To hear “I love thee” once
And “I love thee” once more.
He has become but another victim
Of my lustful violence.

Like a smote soldier yielding
His sword, so shall I yield
The memory of the end of love.