The sensible grief,
That turned upon a leaf,
Never clung to the tree,
For the world to see.

Your lonely heart, departs,
From the soul, of me.

I saw, the mark on your face,
Revealing sadness, in place.

I view, the sights you saw,
Of every, meager flaw.

Here, the moon raises, to a peak,
To draw the curves, of your form.
I was right, when I asked,
“When, will I become forlorn?”

Your dress, of rich blues,
Blooms my soul, brand new.
The Earth, knew,
How love, grew.

The empty, slender form,
Of which I, hold dearly,
‘Twas death, that parted love,
From my gray heart, freely.