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.