Dead Love

Makeshift roses, thorns stabbing at the palm,

Burning through life, it all seems useless to me.

Fact of anger and frustration,

Would this love be the last time.

 

Kneeling down on the surface of the grave,

Lying down, next to the empty coffin,

Breaking every instinct for torture and relief,

Found nothing but grief,

With the angels comforting her from above,

My heart shall soar,

Eclipsing all my hate,

In sweet melody and faith.

 

Would I like it, would I mend it?

Asking all of this, finding none of the answers wanting,

Crawling disparately to the tombstone,

Clenching the hard marble,

Next lying down on my back and towards the sky,

Yearning once more,

Tears becoming folded beneath the rain drops.

 

Kissed away by a rhythmic rationality,

Setting the moon in place,

For its incandescent light downing on the young man,

Allowing for nothing to get in the way.

As the last words of the book held in hand approaches,

Still not finding his place in the diary.

Enraged full of hate, a small puddle filling up with rain.

Looking at his face in the muddies water,

"What have I become?"

 

Walking away the ink soon fading off the pages,

Engraving a symbol of his heart, in earth.

Writing just initials within,

Loving Once Never Ends Lonely with You.