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I kept each stitch so neat and tidy, that I forgot the fabric in between.
It tore, it tattered, it stained, it weakened, and webbed.
Such destruction of such creation left me baffled, nearly dead.

To see such love, such beauty waste and rot against the ending summer,
I'm left like a child, watching her blanket be torn from small fingers and tossed about in the autumn's gusts.

And no, no, no, I plead you, hear the same and oh my heart!
It freezes for the winter, preserved in your calloused fists of stone.
I, left to breath brimstone and ash, choke and fall with my essence.

A pool or two, rain in the gutters. The same moist heavens that we would dance beneath.
When love was at it's finest, delicious and innocent.
We flourished, and now we've aged.

Discontent, it reeks and ravages, excuse, one, three, seven.
Your voice is no one, you are many people.
And all have left me to fall, to die, to weep, to love.

Juliet would blush and Romeo scowl at such remarkable tragedy.