O’ my valentine wept, despite my best intentions,
obscure to her own impassioned euphoria.
Many centuries before the rise of reality,
lived we were on a fertile valley,
unknown of the smouldering destiny.
Thence we were estranged of us along.
She trailed on and then on,
past the bedeviled sorts of laments,
eyes once were fire, scouring for fingers
Of legitimate route judgment,
With only the atoned ashes of hope remaining.
Reached, she was near a bridge of
fragmented dreams and dark-savoring
lethal thoughts of incompetent ideas.
Stood she stock-still, bewildered and
dismayed on that savage cliff,
failed to catch up with this world of
callous humans and false lying gods.
O’ my valentine wept.