In the desolate garden of our discontent
where the world hid always in the shadows of dusk,
neither blessed by day nor forsaken at night,
soft silver light kissing the fey flowers and bramble,
silent witnesses to the dissolution of love's dream.
We were awakened from an enchanted golden slumber,
Yawning, rubbed the remnants of lust from our eyes
to see more clearly, feel more clearly,
the absence of light in our souls and poetry in our eyes.
We woke to find the world changed, unsteady and murky,
a woeful place where love cannot grow
and passion melts into the darkness of the overgrowth.
Like a butterfly in the roses, love up and flitted away,
Leaving us hollow, with only our tragedy to fill us.