She walks the world, a shadow of herself,
a silhouette even and I am concerned for her health,
and I look at her,
and at the sorrow in her eyes, and it brings a tear to mine,
and I in my emotions, am conscious of myself,
conscious for I wish to bring her no further pain,
but I have no happy news,
and the world as it is it turns,
and it burns with war, famine, and drought,
and the ravages of disease remain the same,
but what can be done,
for two broken hearts are usually in the end,
are no better together as one, and we both cry more tears,
for the work of the devil upon the world is never idle,
and the work of the devil is never done,
and we seem to be forever trying to fix ourselves,
through the devastation of the days and the nights,
and through the rising and the setting of the sun.
