There is no more of love

There is no more of love, no scent of it,
Upon the pillow where he lays his head.
Just the cold grey silence of where he sits,
Knowing, the essence of the house is dead.
Love is a simple thing, which only knows
Of love, and not the careless ways of men.
It cannot reason with the mortal blows,
That hurls it towards oblivion.
There is nothing now, but the reality.
An emptiness, and the grim fantasies,
Of the steady step, to finality.
The slow decline, to abnormality.
Where sad and pointless years that lay ahead,
Are filled with loathing, and a sense of dread.

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