In fading fragrances of patchouli and lavender

Shattered in sadness, ripped asunder

Are poems from my diary, who cares

She wouldn't, She hasnt, She won't either

Like a drop of white pigment, in vats of grey

I have penned words, that have only strayed

Manipulated my heart, calmed it, absolved rage

Made it bend, break, mend, to make her stay

In such tomfoolery of childish essence

One can pen poems of hurtful absence

For such distraught is the Hemlock

The soul drinks to die, wilt, or mock

I write, sometimes to her, sometimes about

Of my now frail heart, reeking aloud

In utter failings to not have nor hold

Nor held, nor remembered, nor read, nor told