And so death comes,
with crimson tides,
with cold harsh steel,
and graceful strides,
with burning pain,
and sweet release,
but at least this feeling,
will come to cease.

The last words I plan to write
before the darkness, of endless night,
will be just these, short and few,
I'm sorry for what, I did to you.

The curtain falls, and ushers in,
a blackness, mirrored deep within,
the stands are empty, the stage is dark,
my footsteps echo, as I embark.

And so I leave the stage behind,
the glorious world, where I once shined,
sans hope, sans light, sans life, sans air
I know where I'm going, and I'm not yet there.

I once used words to build a girl wings,
Made her an angel who flew on false strings,
I wrote her endless passages of heartfelt emotion,
as I sat and stared out at the endless blue ocean.

But now I feel to much, to find the prose,
to compare your beauty, to that of a rose,
for it's incomparable, to all else I see,
but know that you, are beauty to me.

So though I don't write like I once did of her,
know that it's you, that I prefer.
For the right words don't exist, to say I love you,
but I assure you that, I truly do

When all is gone,
that matters now,
one last poem,
survives somehow.
And so you read,
and so it goes,
explaining this,
in rhyme or prose;
My dear sweet love,
I love you still,
with all my heart,
I always will.

Though she now gives me kisses, and I enjoy their heat,
her lips aren't soft like yours, nor nearly quite so sweet.
Though she makes me smile, with every "I love you"
I can't forget that moment, when you once said those words too.
Though she's the one who has me now, and does the things you'd do
it'll never be, just quite the same, she simply isn't you.

Of what do poets write, when their muse has finally gone?
When they lose the girl they love, and are expected to move on?
Of what will my heart sing, when I can't sleep at night?
Now she's left me in the cold, and nothing feels alright.