A Love's Death
With a slow and subtle prick,
Oh, how the blade doth tarry.
It cuts the heart to the quick.
Blind optimism cannot parry.
Wild shadows spring and dance;
Hope fades grimly nonetheless.
Without pomp and circumstance,
Its life slides into nothingness.
With gasps and groans it shudders.
Turning one last time to see.
Through waning tears it mutters,
“Have no pity you for me.
For after every dusk comes night;
Blackness into void seems drawn.
But, ever will the Force of Light,
Bring round a pure new dawn.”
Copyright © Chris Coleman | Year Posted 2016
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