I was too busy loving you
To ever notice the signs . . .
The frost forming in the vineyard,
The snow gathering in the pines

So busy was I loving you,
I didn't notice the smoke;
The fire had burned out long ago,
Leaving only embers to stoke

And then there was that lovely rose
You and I planted in the Spring;
While I was busy loving you,
I failed to see it withering

To our garden, without warning
There came clouds obstructing my sight;
Too busy was I loving you
To foresee the approaching blight

There's nothing left to salvage now,
Just withered vines  where love once grew;
Why did I not see this coming?
I was too busy loving you!

Death nips relentlessly at my heels
Like a mongrel that broke from its chains.
Depart, you thief of cherished flesh,
You've no right yet to my remains!

Keep your distance, mask your putrid scent,
I'm not ready . . . and I reject it.
Of course, I know you'll have your way
Some night when I least expect it

And you'll deliver some lame excuse,
As any deceitful villain would;
Ramble on, vicious Thief of Life,
Your prattle will do you no good

Although despised by one and by all,
Some cruel law has given you free reign
To decide when our transient frames
Shall invade the earthworm's domain

And obey we must -  we have no choice,
Not the meek, not the bold, nor the mild.
Indiscriminate is the soil,
Taking all . . . man, woman and child

For you've never yet lost a battle--
By no regulations are you bound.
I'll object, but you'll still drag me
To your lair deep into the ground

And when that final trumpet blast sounds,
Not a drop of mercy will you show;
Up you'll jump, eager to collect
All that's due you . . . and down we'll go!

Ice still gathers upon the window panes.
Though I keep the hearth ablaze, I fear
In this desolate corner of my world
Spring will be a little late this year

A fear of dread and emptiness prevails
Since the light and warmth of love withdrew,
How will I endure  . . . How can I forget
All the joys of Spring that I once knew?

Now trees raise leafless arms toward the sky,
Shivering without their sleeves of green;
Bewildered birds gaze upon vacant nests,
Sadly pondering the dismal scene

And the flowers . . . what could convince them
To awaken to this hollow gloom?
To what avail would be their blossoming
And the essence of their sweet perfume?

And though I smile, my eyes betray the pain
That stabs at the heart when love is lost;
The sun has battened down its golden doors,
Leaving Hope to tremble in the frost

I'll not see the flowers bloom and go to seed,
Nor hear the nightingale's plaintive call;
And I know, as sure as day turns to night,
Spring will be late . . . if it comes at all

A woman knows when a man loves her,
By Divine Grace she perceives such things;
Even when his love goes undeclared,
She can feel it vibrate her heartstrings

A woman knows when a man loves her,
Her heart opens when he turns the key;
From her face a noble radiance streams
Reflecting love's rare divinity

A woman knows when a man needs her,
Watchful she stands, ready to appease
With wise counsel and devoted love,
Putting both his mind and heart at ease

A woman knows when a man loves her,
She'll nourish  love's seed until it grows
Into their own Garden of Eden.
O, there is no doubt, a woman knows!

What cruel force keeps lovers apart --
Why must each tread a separate path?
Preordained they should never meet . . .
What arbiter inflicts such wrath?  

Two lives hurled into misery,
Two hearts nailed to the same cross;
Never to savor  love's banquet,
They're condemned to feed off life's dross

Spring faintly smiled on these two hearts
As dreams absorbed their youthful hours;
Although  nurtured like tender plants
They yielded naught but withered flowers

Each new day held a ray of Hope,
Dispelling  impatience and doubt;
They kept watch as the flame burned bright . . .
Till finally, their tears put it out

Two hearts dying slow painful deaths,
Each cloaked in its own crimson shroud;
One heart dies, crying silently,
The other sobs its pain aloud

Two lonely hearts ever dreaming
They might stroll Love's Garden one day;
Now resigned, they no longer dream --
Sadly, on Death's threshold they lay

So come forth and ring the death knell --
Come lay your bouquets at their feet;
Mourn if you will such tragedies
While asking  "Why didn't they meet?"

Candlelight illumes my dreary room
Causing shadows to contort and sway;
In my heart there stirs a deep unrest
As the past flaunts its seductive play

Merciful Absinthe! It's known to calm
Tortured hearts by helping them forget;
How the swirling liquids mesmerize . . .
Tears and Absinthe make a strange duet

But my reveries will not be scorned --
I must yield to their silent demand.
And as the Green Fairy warms my throat,
Memories unravel, strand by strand

I recall the little tiffs we had,
Sometimes ending in a full-blown row,
But with each sip that moistens my lips,
I swear, they seem so trivial now

As I drain the glass, warm thoughts of you
Fill my head, causing me to give pause:
Why in Heaven's name did we part ways?
Right now I can't justify the cause

And I miss the good times that we shared,
Not just romance, but the laughter, too;
I thought Absinthe would help me forget,
But tonight . . . tonight I'm missing you

Rarely does someone knock at my door . . .
It may be the darkness that they fear;
Through the open windows my voice resounds,
Perhaps they're startled by what they hear

I do tend to rant in mournful ways,
Maybe at times, a bit too robust,
But this is my voice, and these are my words,
So maintain your distance, if you must

There are those who commune quietly,
Speaking of God and his loving ways;
And those who reminisce about their youth,
Recalling scenes from happier days

But never has God come to my door,
So I have no divine tales to tell;
My youth was simple, passed with nonchalance,
So on this theme I've no need to dwell

But I could speak of cold, lonely nights
And the anguish of being alone;
How adept I am at nursing  love's wounds,
Yet, I never learned to heal my own

More than once, rough winds have ****** me down,
And Time had to re-feather my wings;
I've been neglected, abandoned and lost,
So I tend to dwell upon these things

You'll not hear a cheerful melody
Streaming through the broken window panes,
There's no roaring fire blazing on the hearth,
Just smoldering embers of love's remains

Skies become gray, and clouds tend to burst
When they pass over my little space;
Perhaps this is why guests dare not linger . . .
Too daunting and dismal is my place.
Well, then be off with you, and quicken your pace!