When a poet cries,
tears are his words,
and so many are
coming from this poet,
as I write looking for
a rhyme because my heart
aches so much  it seems
a crime.
This paper is my sleeve,
wiping away the tears
that form a delicate weave
deciding what to say about her,
each teardrop with a life
of it's own as they fall
down on to the paper.
I will continue to cry until
the right words are found,
because  my love for her
was not a gift to be given,
it was a love that wanted
to be accepted and accepted
I thought it was when
she said to me,
"Could you really be the one
I've searched for in
all of my sixty years," the one
I've dreamed about
and shed so many tears?"
going on to say,
"thank you Jesus for this man
I've looked for so very long
and I will treat him like the gold
he is and sing my happy song."
This love I'll never lose I thought,
and this is a joy I cannot refuse.
But her parting left in my heart
a big hole and she does not wilt
at my cries and I know she
does not fret, for in her
I found reprise.
The love she gave me
I won't forget, but my
loneliness harms me,
becoming darkness,
a broken heart startled
into awareness.
I am horribly ashamed
because I find I've gotten lost
with no one to find me,
but I only blame myself.
Mornings are the hardest
for me because she is all
I see in my thoughts,
but by afternoon the pain
is mostly gone but thoughts
of her never leave and
I continue to grieve.
So happy for two years in
what now seems such
a short time and now all
I am left with is a rhyme.            Jon York    2011