The drawers are full of despair
And the dead have your tongue
Splattered on clots of paper and ink.
The heated missives still declare
Phantom passions sung
As we plunged over the brink.
We struggled in a spectral time
And loved as only we could.
The gentle vicissitudes of youth,
The years of articles and rhyme
No longer serve a greater good
And lack the ring of truth.