The title isn't very good but it's all I could come up with

Fruitless endeavours that rot in the sun,
leaving their scent to permeate the air
and make one's nose crinkle.

This is where I walk, meadows littered
with decay as corpses of the past rot
for eternity.

Over there, one can find what is left of
Love, beautiful was his face until the
buzzards came and took it. And just
to the right of Love, if one looks close
enough, there lies Happiness. Her hair
now matted and her skin yellowing
and gray.

The trees, now all dead, hang their bone
like branches and offer little shelter from
the burning acid rain that falls. Desolation
calls this place home, land of the forsaken
which becomes one's cemetary of the soul.

Bones crunch beneath foot as one treads
through this barren wasteland of the heart.
No flowers to decorate this meadow of
dead Love and Happiness, only the thorns
of dead rosebushes.

Buzzards circle overhead ...

Enchantment is all but lifeless, there is no
Love left within this bleeding heart as darkness
mingles with the light in some surreal scene.

Not even the Reaper ventures here ...

(c) 2003 A. Riddle