So - what does this sad world have left of love?
It ran its course too soon, before my day.
Now, selfishly, I curse the gods above
As if that rage could burn my fault away.
As recent as the bard's bucolic age
The musk of sweet affection did abound
And though that all was scribed, page after page,
The written word cannot capture the sound.
Yet I - within my times of strangled doubt -
Do wearily admit I may be cause
For others surely have not gone without
And do not, given choice, leave room to pause
And do not question love they may receive.
There's not much love left for me, I believe.
Written March, Revised May 23
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