Like smouldering coals, weeping hot ashes.
My mouth and throat are dry from grief,
The flood long gone in remembered flashes.
On my middle finger is a ring; silver,
Like the mercurial tears I�d like to shed.
�Round my neck, a promise broken,
A chain of love, a ruined pledge.
I mourn for what has been, and what will not,
Yet, though words of mortals be untrue
By nature; and though conquered by space and time,
Know that naught will ever change the love
That I have felt for you.
� Lishesque
10:21 pm Wednesday 2 July 2003