Lost Love

 

It tasted sweet like honeysuckle,

But like blood, settled heavy in the glass.

The first sip tore her throat to shreds-

The second was her last.

Once more the Sun departs,

Ignorant to whom he leaves-

A dame, a victim an expired soul

Whose lover watches from the eaves.

She was not his to guard-

She is not his to mourn-

But the Moon with his sorrow-

dimmed, reduced, destroyed.

 

 

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