Loves me not

From the depth of my soul
to the tip of my pen,
light has grown cold
like an iceberg in the Andes.

Such is love
that is not perceived
nor accepted
to the worth of its extent.

It brings tears in the desert
of the scorned heart
to the drought
that is soon felt in a dry river bed.

There is no life
for the love lost languid soul
who receives this accusation
of no redemption.

"You don't love me"
is the lie that permeates his being
which from the tip of his pen
the world to share.