She mourns the death of love



As morning glory creeps across the blasted tree

and bright flowers hide the ravages of rot,

as autumn vines drape cold tumbled stones

warming dead ruins with cascades of fire

and red poppies carpet the fields of muddy death

time will weave a heart of sorts

to replace the one I gave to you.


But though the passing weeks and months and years

will heal the wound and fill the empty space

with some sweet froth of trivia

that leaves no lingering taste upon the tongue

no pain, no deep-carved emotion in the gut

nothing will ever be the same again.


The world, my heart, the poppy-covered mud

all are changed utterly

and I mourn the stillbirth

of the beauty that could have been.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

15 thoughts on “She mourns the death of love”

      1. Wow.. we do not see such colors of the autumn here in my city, Kolkata like you do in yours. I will be looking forward to learning more about the colours of the various seasons through your lovely words..

      2. The colours here change gradually, and usually in a muted way. That’s why some leaves and some plants look so dramatic. We don’t have the exotic lushness of India; the tones are softer.

    1. You know, Laurie, I get a real feeling of acheivement when you and the other kind bloggers leave this kind of comment. Who cares if you are the only ones to read what I write? It’s enough for me. Thanks for your support.

      1. Thank you Jane. At the end of the day even if you only reach out to one person you have accomplished something.

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