Unfortunately,
It has been the case thus far with humanity,
That sorrow is the mother of poetry
And the lines sung to unrequited loves for underserving muses
Far surpass the ones betrothed to their diametric opposites
The loneliness of rain, of death, of night, far more begets the use of pen put to rhyme
Than the warm companionship of singing bird and sunshine, when it’s all too easy to breathe, to be safe, to be alive
Better to enjoy fleeting moments of sublime, better to be a poet sorrow has made ripe
So very rare few bother to sit and write when eloped by a simmering, soft laugh instead of a quiet cry
Well, my love, that must be why, now that I don’t love you, I’m left with this cheap plight
For as much as I wanted you gone, vanished, out of sight, you neglected to inform me that, in doing so, none of my poems would ever sound right
That I would be left rhyming “quite” with “delight”
That it was all you, divine parasite, who gave me the ambrosia tasting of cyanide
And so, my muse, return
And so, my muse, break my heart
I won’t resent you for the hurt or for wanting out of love everything but my part
For my ego, too fragile, wallows in this respite
Its yearning for poetry only your neglect could suffice
Laying on the soft grass, I grow worried as I realise
I might lose it this very afternoon, my love, as I forget you in the sunlight