We are breathless in void, in consequence of the subsequent vacuum when love left.
Two glass portraits of silence reflect the solitary conversation of what was with what will never be.
Even as a lost feather on the nest of another, there is no warmth from the fellowship of flocks new.
Dissimilar ears hear deceit told without remorse for the self afflicting defeat.
Tears are paint on a faded canvass long scraped clear of adoration.
I plead, craft a sentient soul oh artisan to be as should be the crest of what you make.
Yet death is the only comfort we are faced and forced to take.
-M