By J. Lynne Moore
I’ll dance not, upon your grave;
Though you, in life, were a knave.
Tender, your kiss, once made me shine,
Like the blossoms of the honeysuckle vine.
Then turned cold, your wicked embrace,
Leaving tears to stain my face.
I will not deny my bitter disdain;
That left my heart spent and mind insane.
But never did I wish for death to befall,
Your wretched soul, ‘twas your own downfall.
Yet, here I stand in a mourner’s gown,
As tears salt the rain cascading adown.
Is heaven or hell your newfound home?
Or does your soul hover betwixt the gloam?
A day may come whence we meet again…
‘Till that time, my life, I shall feign.
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