How my heart does wonder still,
of love, I labored long, to fill,
in skies so dark, I cannot see,
that thing, which lives, relentlessly.
It's phantom roams forgotten rooms,
that lurks about this endless gloom,
of sorrow for the wasted years,
with reddened eyes from drying tears.
I see the sweeping of a broom,
whose face is hidden by the door,
I hear a knocking on my heart,
that echoes hope you tore apart.
Regis
fee