Baron

Thanks for following! I hope you enjoy “No One Dies in the Garden of Syn”

All through an empty place I go,
          And find her not in any room;
          The candles and the lamps I light
          Go down before a wind of gloom. 
          Thick-spraddled lies the dust about,
          A fit, sad place to write her name
          Or draw her face the way she looked
          That legendary night she came.
          
          The old house crumbles bit by bit;
          Each day I hear the ominous thud
          That says another rent is there
          For winds to pierce and storms to flood.
          
          My orchards groan and sag with fruit;
          Where, Indian-wise, the bees go round;
          I let it rot upon the bough;
          I eat what falls upon the ground.
          
          The heavy cows go laboring
          In agony with clotted teats;
          My hands are slack; my blood is cold;
          I marvel that my heart still beats.
          
          I have no will to weep or sing,
          No least desire to pray or curse;
          The loss of love is a terrible thing;
          They lie who say that death is worse. 
          The Loss Of Love
          Countee Cullen

"Hope is the thing with feathers
          That perches in the soul,
          And sings the tune without the words,
          And never stops at all," Emily Dickinson

They dull my eyes, yet I keep on dying, Because I love to live. Maya Angelou