We found a lone bench in the park that day,
A cold wind turned the collars of our coats;
You, recently returned with words to say,
Confessions I long gathered from your notes.
I did not take your hand, for well I knew
Iced loveless eyes now gazed upon my form;
Why could you not have written we were through,
What value in voiced torts now pity torn?
But you, professed pathologist on love,
Compelled to autopsy sweet love’s demise,
As shameless as some vile god above,
Content to torment for some macabre cause;
And love, stone-dead, you did cut out its heart,
And clinically detailed your own report.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.