Onto a crumpled, weathered parchment
he bleeds out his love for her
And she, in turn
finds words, that wax poetic
Flowery words. pretty words
Words that rhyme,
quarter tones of time
Flowers, hearts, peer-laden smiles
lined up-- all, in a pretty little line
There is a spattered blood,
on tattered parchment, still
and, still.. no less mine
I'm holding out my only candle
though it's so little light to find my way
Now this story's been laid beneath my candle
and it's shorter every hour
as it reaches for the day
Yes, I feel just like a candle in a way
I hope I'll get there,
but I'll never pray
~J. Browne
years pass.. and I am beginning to age
