they took her to the doleful traitor’s gate,
where none could save her life or bring release,
along the river to a heavy fate,
no harp or dulcimer to give her peace.
the world had turned away, the tudor rose
in ruins at her feet, the fickle king,
inconstant, needing sons, the river flows
with royal blood where sorrow’s angels sing.
“to jesus i commend my soul,” she cried,
she wore damask, her mantle was ermine,  
poor cramer heard the cannon as she died,
he fell and wept, forgave her every sin.
  the strings were broken on the violin,
  that sang no more for laughing anne boleyn.

Love is not the cure for loneliness
Or depression
Love  is the ill-working
Flow of a broken heart
And damaged soul
Only one can heal me
I just can't hear His voice right now.

I love You, LORD, with all my heart,
And all my soul, and all my mind,
And all my strength (my weakest part),—
With all myself in all combined.
Strengthen me, God; refine my core,
That I may love You all the more.

He left
A mark the color of red wine
Zinfandel
Placed high on cheek bone
Directly under her left eye
Such tears only bruising
It further

I didn't mean to
He simply stated

She left
A note the color of resentment
Charcoal
Placed atop bedroom dresser
Directly over her exiled contents
Such emptiness only reinforcing
It further

Once was more than enough
She simply stated

In the last pandemic,
I fell in love with a sick person.
We didn’t stay 6 feet apart.
I pressed my head on his chest
and listened to his beating heart.
We shared our limbs and our breath,
and there was only one part
of him that threatened me with death.
I miss the days when we knew
what risks we were taking.
But we still  measure love that’s true
by what we are willing
to do and to not do.