There’s more to words than rhyme,
more to life than time,
more to love than a paper heart,
more to pain than a doctor’s chart.
Memories like a haunted house
or the bitter smell of ashes doused,
and quiet ghosts, silver shadows,
drift in smoke against shattered windows
In the place where once lived love,
now traced in dust with soft white gloves,
the story of one, of two, then none
leave cold salt tears to linger on.