there is a autumnal ache
in this false spring
of decaying promise
and unexpected shivers,
dust motes hang heavy
on the swollen symphony
strummed lightly across
tattered old heartstrings.

ill intent permeates these
overflowing salted rivers
of unshed tears from lost
lovers last laconic demise,
the sparrows sing mutely
no soft whistles in this
heady malaise saturating
the sunless sky of mourning.