Weeds Of Neglec Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Our love hasn't yet pleaded poverty.
But there are days, my dear, when I go hungry.

Do you think our love has a life, condemn?
That withers away like our last encounter.

It's bled so much like a cut flower stem.
It withers and shrivels like a burnt flower.

It rolls its head into the cool shadows, hem.
Here, not even the wild mint can tower.

Above the weeds of neglect left to grow
They've divided us like. Juliet & Romeo.