The Death of Love
THE DEATH OF LOVE
Love has no answer to the questioning
inborn from pain of losing Love, the game,
and all the restless nights this loss may bring,
can only heap more mis'ry on the same.
There's never understanding when love's done,
just emptiness--it eats you bit by bit,
and so the nights are long, the hope is none,
but life, sweet life goes on in spite of it.
So do not ask me what my plans might be,
in making none; I claim the best of all,
to see me through what you've provided me;
by failing in our love, you've made life stall.
Just leave! I'll wish you well, until the thought
tonight that you are gone, is all I've got.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
|