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.