To talk of soul,
Yet be cut off,
By woes of love,
Upon the rocks,
Dashed and diced,
In passion’s prime,
Is nothing more,
Than a mark of time.

The weary one,
Who counts his blessings,
By races run,
With tired methods,
Prays for rest,
Upon the wings,
Of the angel,
In fading ink.

Yet he knows now,
He is alone,
And for his troubles,
He shall atone,
As he loved her,
As soulmates do,
But wished an end,
Both well and true.

That was when,
His soul would close,
To any lovely,
Soft repose,
And he would fall,
To love itself,
And call “I’m sorry,”
As he fell.