Death of Lovers

Speak beyond a wretched tree

Foul-mouthed into catharsis

Forest beds grant rest to ye

Laid down in coffins promise.

A wet-haired fellow 

And a maiden in rest

They sleep now hand in hand,

From scribe and tome 

moss has grown,

From the library of eternal homage.

Ere this night the pen shall slay

Etched on hecatomb, 

From waters drenched 

In woods lament

You'll find them in the blooms.

The grass, the fields,

The creek doth trickle

To the sounds of woodland marsh,

Toward the north 

Where stars still float, 

Marks their resting spot.