The books upon the shelf do gather dust.
Their wilted pages mem'ries plenty hold,
But sit we two on piléd broken trusts
And move we not until the house grows cold.
Our things lie 'bout the room in disarray:
Your broken tools, my shattered figurines.
The garden, too, has started to decay,
Along with ***** dishes in the sink.
The wicked vines have wound around our walls,
An ivy cage we fed with foolish pride.
Now in this house of ruin do we stall
Avoiding what we still have cast aside.
     And so within these broken houses stay
     All lovers who throw not their pride away.