With careful cadence, ink steps on pages

And rhythmically, words stride to our minds.

They serve all the troubled of the ages,

Myself aligned with the mass of mankind.

My first love seemed an everlasting spring,

Forgotten, was the bite of cold, and from

My fingers every letter would sing.

I wrote in haze, ignoring what could come,

And it came. And he left. But they remained.

Those terrible scratches across the page.

Whispering what was gone, and what still pained,

The stains, once marks of love, were ones of rage.

Though poetry lasts, all is not the same,

Love seems to go as quickly as it came.