Blueness, and sickness,
Like tears that come as blackness,
Like shadow that encapsulates
At the edge of winter.
Her bereavement was the castle upon the slope,
Where careened down
Were the pieces of a marriage, lost to be buried.
We each drained tears into an ebony cup,
And felt for the soil that conceals our presence.
We masked our emotions with solemn vows,
A marriage that would soon see its end.
Before the dream came true,
We were already periled.
We were already Nihilists,
Before we became Realists.
We are now Individualists
Before a fountain that whispers secrets to statues,
Covered with moss, as they are, in the haze of a fullest moon.
To grasp your hips with firmness,
And take into me, the fullness of thee.
A fullest moon, a fullest face,
The roundest eyes,
The bliss you share, with sighs
That make me smile, and tearful.
Though, none could come true
In the brokenness
Of something I cannot repair,
Nor can you.
You had eyes that would make paradise
A meager shell of what it was.
You had a form that would make Venus
Return to her shell.
Here I am to recall the names of the women
Who I have ever met,
But, none will ever make me believe
The way you made me believe,
And made us leave,
Each other, in the grief.