• I'm dying, my dear one.
    Fingers resting on the blade
    of a heartache of a seeming
    never to be tamed.
    I'm so fragile,
    but you're so far
    that these poor, soft hands
    grip for hope too hard.

    We're dying, my love.
    This happy reassurance of fate
    is turning against us
    as our selves arrive too late.
    We condemned ourselves
    beneath betrayal's scorn
    as the lily withers back
    from the lashing of the thorns.

    You're dying, my lost one.
    Turning backs have built these
    walls of pain, and sorrow twists
    faces until recognition ceases.
    You have fallen beneath
    the grave of the rose bed
    as a heavy heart breaks
    and leaves the hope of you for dead.