Your love is life wrenched from your ribs and eyes,
and torn from sighs that move and whisper to,
the Earth, the ground, around, may die and lies,
a fitting memory of what you knew.
And in that pregnant apple you are mad,
wherein resides the bitter taste of flesh,
the blush directs the compass to the lad.
Conjoined, they are a thread within the mesh.
And from these seeds two seeds are sprung: they sang.
They sang of times and works and spoke of more,
yet green were eyes that ripped the voice and tongue,
a man who took your heart and nothing more.
So throw the rain upon the ground
and listen to its never-ending sound.