I wont survive the winter
in your English garden of love;
where rosebuds melt to thorns,
and benches turn to bound splinter.

Nothing left except to part
with hollow sentiments exchanged,
silly words rearranged.
No substance in them, no heart.

You aren't even there anymore
with empty concrete bird baths,
choked by brown vineyards.
No paths left to explore.

No real goodbye, just a note
explaining why in so few words,
empty even when bursting seemless.
I wonder why you ever wrote.

The darkest shadow of last November
unwinds around too calloused hearts;
until black crows flee chilled.
No summer heat left to remember.

No moon or stars beneath the cloud.
No slanderous words thrown at our feet.
No simple hymn to hum defeat.
No one even to wrap the shroud.