But If Love Die Poem by Patti Masterman

Your heart my metronome, endlessly beating,
Your name my memory of song, repeating;
Drumming the bones of body, entreating,
Playing my soul, the melody so fleeting.

Light from another day went missing far away;
We bound up the remnants, never to let betray,
Lest the dead words, which we knew we must never say
Killed hope of remedy, for which we dared not pray.

Our eyes closed themselves against mad truth so dire;
Limbs raised up only to climb our own funeral pyre;
All our holy books the ashes of fatal liars:
Nothing left now but the last putrifying fire.