The Desolate Love
The desolate love breathes awhile.
A mirthless smile blinks at the brim of the lips.
A smile of Sphinx,
From life it drinks
The last drop of air,
Which melts in the fire.
Furthermore, the butt-ends of the days.
Wayward running listless ways.
I have measured life drop by drop.
All lies wasted on the fervid prop.