dults we stand for time has passed us by
our childish ways have bloomed into a blight
the roots we set, now gnarled, so pained decry,
the visages of springtime love's delight.
Upon foul winds you've flown, you've left
a thief without the strength to be forthright.
A fallen limb, a rotting bough bereft,
am I to lay alone, as winter comes,
as you bloom again within a riper cleft?
Is this your wish, and how your pledge succumbs?
Never had I dreamed I'd be so harshly left
for a younger bloom with naught but dried crumbs.
By sins of the flesh, we've been undone.
I will not forgive what you've become.