The Suicide of Love

Ere I was born - there I be.
All the events of life would come to me.
Innocence would be lost but for a memory.

A truth that is told with bad intent
Is worse than all the hell you can invent.
And even worse is he that draws a child astray.
For he will rot within his grave.

All those that doubt from what they see,
Will never themselves be believed.
But those that open Loves doorway in life,
Can never understand all the pain and the strife, that this Love, would cut them and stab them, as if with a knife.   And I believe it still will in the afterlife.

The suicide of Love, meets the wildlife,  for Love was untamed, and near a sorcers witch.
But I was in Love, the color of violets.

From the blackened burned ashes of sorrows,  there rises the glory of the Phoenix of tomorrow. 
I contemplate just what it is I should do...
To ease the pain of loving you.

I was created to have this desire...
You were the reason for my fire.
But as with rejection, the moment seems dire.

See the tears of the white winged dove...
I know the reality of the sacrifice of Love.

I cry tears that make rivers
That finally wind their way to the sea.
The waves come in and wash over me....
But the depression will not let me be.
I am lost in the outcome and I shake and quiver.   My soul to the grave will I be delivered.

And there I shall build a mausoleum....
Where remembrances and  gifts may be given.
In my name I will l kill myself, and there will be no one to blame ....
Life on earth will continue on the same.

The Angels  are crying tears of blood from above.  For they know, this is the suicide of my Love.
Is there solace in death?
Is there fear of what is to come.... when we take our last gasping breath?

What grief resides in the words of a song?
Needing to want, wanting to belong....
We will never know why it went so terribly wrong.

Nor why it is that we must shoulder this bane.. .and we have, as we fly, our souls unrestrained.

When anger flashes, who knows what will go....where we wind up.....only heaven knows.

For the suicide of Love, oh, can it be saved?
Or must we leave the regrets at the grave.