A severe civility rests within
the soul,
of the broken hearted man.

That burn which test, his fabric's core
has torn
the once strong warp; no more.

His eyes are filled, of far off light;
enough
for only, each sole night.

His words may break in lines, between
the bones,
of the sentence, of his meaning.

Not the whole man, he used to be
for reasons
less obvious, to you and me.

He keeps his grief apart, so he
can bury it
some place, secretly.

And though he never go there again:
his eyes
his loved one's shroud, still rend.