by Damiam Henry on October 29, 2014. © Damiam Vincent Henry, All rights reserved
She gave her life to me.
For me. She gave immortality.
I felt her love so infinitely,
Yet her heart I lost inside the sea.

O' my beautiful daffodil on a stone.
Cannot I be roaming on this earth,
For I have lost you and all love's worth.
What have I done? I'm all but alone,
What more could be found in such dirt?
My heart's like a stone.
You are mine comfort;
When the moon stands alone,
&the stars stealeth from its glow out north.

Your heart alone to mine be known.

All it has is its own reflection as a soul mate,
For the sun comes and goes.
And you have given me new faith...
Would they ever be able to stand as one, nobody knows.

But still the moon appreciates its own reflection through the eyes of a river.
For men such as me;
I fear has no hope of ever finding love in a summers, autumn or winter.
We drown ourselves in the sorrow we see.

Thus we never look forward to any given tomorrow.
Grief is our only belief,
The stench of our own heart's are but a pain we borrow.
A loneliness undescribed; falling autumn leaf.

It breathes without a reason,
And dies without a purpose.
It lives through every season.
And ends all those it curses.

How dreary are we few,
Who has rebelled against the thing they call 'love."
Where It once made us feel anew.
Now it is lost to us; hidden up above.

Men like me, has no hope in feeling it again.
For we have felt it and it has left us bruised and shattered,
Our hearts are torned and our souls are battered.
This love has left so many in vain.

Love became but a fairytale,
A make believe Shakespeare cliché...
To some it became an old wife's tale.
But to me a chafe.

Alas we endure pain.
Alas we tend not to quiver,
will I ever that feeling regain?
Or would I forever suffer?

Love is just a memory,
falling in love means being behind enemy lines to many
Love drains the life out of one.
Leaves many without drawing any attention their-selves upon

It is the thief in the night.
An unfortunate light.
It desecrates your existence,
but many are filled with persistence.

It toils and plunders last hope.
We are but victims of an old age custom,
That has left many to do silly things in its name; led some to turn to a rope.
But love forever be to me an unaccustom.

Love and all its components aren't 'just'
It is an emotional lust.

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