We often do not
Notice when the small things go
Like one firefly
In the midst of a crowd
Or a star
In the presence of the moon
This story was far from a sentence
But it started from a word
From one thought to another
From pleasure to hurt
But I see as the petals
Start to fall
As the ink
Runs dry
The once rivers
Turned to stone
Like a magic story
That was a lie
They do not cry for you
But I stand at your grave
The symbol of my presence
And the shadow of my pain
I once held you
Like a treasure
But that too
Was gone
How often did love measure
With a rose's love thorn