035
The smell of rot is nigh.
Is there naught to bequeath?
If love is not your sword,
why keep it in a sheath?
Your proclamations are unjust,
pointing fingers at your fears.
None is left but bones and rust
of the hopes you once held dear.
Eyes in love do not lie,
but yours, they boil and seethe.
Your lips utter no words,
and your lungs do not breathe.
Have you lost your empty trust?
Have hate putrefied your ears?
Are your words nothing but dust,
blackened ash to blind and blear?
A hollow husk that cries,
with no well underneath.
A tongue that bids and lords,
and qualms that do not cease.
My beloved caught in a gust,
before the right of my bier.
Come and ask me, if you must,
why can I shed no more tears?