When love dies young,
like a rose plucked by a curious
kid's stubby fingers, right after
it bloomed in full sight.

The poet clutches his pen, still,
in a maddening rush, scribbling
half writ songs with no endings...
the fire crackles quietly in a corner,

and even its heat is not enough
to melt the frost which envelops
the air; when words are spewed but
future seems bleak, as sand

in an hourglass slips by, waiting
to be upturned, and yet another
love dies young, while the crowd
watches in sheer indifference.