I wept with our Oak. Laid broken on a tear shaped tomb as a shell which tore at the yolk, in our nest of no song barren as Mother Natures womb. Once here I was felled. Our bodies burned like fire. But forces of nature are eventually quelled, her coldness became loves pyre. For one last time I read to you Frost at the last page is the Elm leaf you pressed, from the first time we kissed that fell on your chest, now marking the end of stories lost. Poems unwritten inscribed on leaves. Raining from my soul that grieves. Under veined skies of reaching branches. You haunt me in the omen of banshees. True love that lives, dies a terrible rage. The Elm was pressed on the very last page. Your love only lives each night behind lashes In dreams we are one until sleep passes, and when I awake you are forced to sleep In the crib of my heartbreak you weep.