The last time I saw her she was wearing different clothes
and cruel years were gnawing at the soft skin on her cheeks.
The voice that speaks inside my head bade me keep on walking
and hope the ghosts that haunt her did not prompt her to recall
the one who tried to hold her when the demons came to torture
already ravaged remnants of a devastated mind.

Though nothing could save her, my love's irrational behaviour
drew attention to the madness that drove her without mercy
to the edge of the abyss. And I who knew the ecstasy
of long nights spent beside her could not know why she spurned me,
turned to face the shadow, embraced the ghosts she most feared,
unafraid to dree her wyrd*, as if she longed for death's sweet kiss

Scientific logic has extinguished all the magic ,
her laugh no longer sparkles nor does her anger sting
and all things done to save her have voided the remainder
of the woman that I knew, and loved so long and well
Now she walks in shadows, half of my being shuns her
while half sees my love is simply wearing different clothes

(*dree her wyrd - middl;e English and Scottish: face her fate)