The sweet air never did taste so as now,
the long awaited embrace in the shade.
She says her name is Spring,
But that no longer matters,
no more than mine own.

A faint recognition, though the rose is changed,
As the vines intertwine the sun grows brighter.
The fires roar and burn the everlasting fuel,
The heat scorns the joy it brings.
the melancholy of pasts great burden,
memories not of mine.


She meakly walks through the door,
golden leaves a sign of her presence.
Her darkened face speaks of hard times,
past or future, she darent say.
But I feel, shes ill at ease.

I lay her down, the reaper by my side.
I ask her where my steadfast star is,
But she simply stares at me with a smile.
The white field and the clean slate it brings,
echo her soul, bu not my heart.
The melancholy arrives again, but not the same.
She lies still, and her breath draws flat.