He softly cries until he sleeps,
tempting appeals of angels and weep,
It hurts, the pain,
Obviously, naught to gain,
Which is what is felt whenever a loss,
Of the most woeful kind can endorse,
The severed arteries to heart, and blood
Will stop flowing to it, gently flood,
The rest with gaping holes of hope,
And hope is the depressed man's hang rope
That he ties 'round his neck and prays,
That he may again see beautiful days,
And in hopes when he jumps from kicked chair,
That maybe, just maybe, he'll see her there,
With agony flowing from his eyes,
He can not help but to despise
The dreaming mind and hopeful heart
Turned to bumbling folly, and all false start,
His heart is but a mosoleum,
His mind is but an old museum,
Filled with antiquity, memories of late,
The pain always finds way to gestate,
It's cancerous spread to even make
The muscles within to quiver and ache,
It is colder here, he once noticed,
Upon bereavement of his pretty lotus,
That without her warmth caressing him at night,
He wakes every hour sniffing the air in false plight,
In false hope to find her scent there lingering,
Only To be reminded of cold nights and shivering,
Again the tears find pillow and cover,
He could not remember of times being more fonder,
He imagined it had never been,
That though never helps herein,
Especially considering the terrible ache,
Of even a wretched thought his brain make.
He is truly happy that she is better.
An injured man, he will endeavor.
He decides his time again may come,
And sudden misery will be undone,
But even if that turns to be naught,
He even then won't be distraught,
For either way, happier she'll be,
And that's what he wants most for she.