To Love’s Disuse and Healing Dawn

As colors bleed the sky in austere hues,

The breath of nightfall doth its heaving sigh,

Where stammer'd whispers choke on love's disuse,

And meek entreaties in the darkness die.

Why frets the world in shrouded cruelty?

What tempest churns and wrings these veins of care,

When star-crossed lives unravel woefully,

And woven dreams in slumb'ring throes despair?

Sweet muse, begone: thy gall'd hearts reeking sore,

May sink as leaden weight in silent pool;

Where passion's fire expires on cold, dead floor,

And spake the truth: these tides of love are cruel.

Yet every dawn doth rend apart the veil,

And Time, that dauntless healer, cures what ail.