She.

no more the carefree lovestruck lout,
no longer lethargic days in wait.
remains a lonesome void, a drought,
description eludes my mental state.

for the past is my permanent home,
the present but a transient tenement,
it passes me as time goes by:
deceitful, spiteful, unstoppable time.

blank verse and praise-prose, plastic's worth,
roses, once blooming, wilted and brush'd
aside on the cobbled boulevard,
in heaps and mounds and gather dust.

the bleeding heart in ink, smeared,
the frenetic scribbles of a madman in love,
of sighs and glances, impish smiles,
i write eulogies of days better.

i write, and write, in hope of release,
not inspiration; closure, i seek.
oh, look, they say, he fell on his face!
my dreams of past are up in a haze.

she smiles at life like a flower in spring,
she seems to laugh at its plentiful feats,
her graceful eyes do still excite,
her dainty person, still intact.

but more than that, her spirit's untrammelled,
her thoughts sky high, her rudder still strong.
and in this knowledge, i survive,
upon our parting vow, i abide.