The death of love, that dark oppressive thing,
Left nothing for me to do or say
To make her heart love as it did last spring,
When gentle touch took loneliness away.
Now cold, the wind will take my joys
And slow, no solace, passing endless night.
Echoes of her face my mind destroys
As passion and her semblance fade from sight.
Against all odds I wait for her return,
But never will she come, because I wait.
The love she gave, and didn't give, will burn
While intellect and passion separate.
Batter my soul and temper this frantic mind
Until she gives what I could never find.