The Pond

Cold tears are falling from the sky,
To make ripples on the pond's calm water,
Like the salty tears that fall from your eye,
To make ripples in your undrunk vodka.
The thorny rose that you once held,
Withers and sheds its petals,
To fall into the glass you hold,
Like your tear drops, soft and gentle.

Your romance died beneath the stars,
As the pale moon hid behind the clouds,
The rose wilted within your heart,
Now your soul's screaming to get out,
It finds the pond invitingly cold,
Its murky depths, a place to hide,
Its invitation makes you feel bold,
Your first step towards the other side.

A grey mist rolls across the pond,
Like the phantom soul of a long dead hero,
Reaching out to take your hand,
Inviting you into his realm's sorrow,
Should you let temptation be your fate,
And step into the cold, still pond?
Should you let your soul fly away,
To join the love you mourn?

You step into the still, cold water,
The rose held firmly to your breast,
You wade until its past your shoulders,
Before you bow your head.
Your long black hair flows on the ripples,
You here the gentle water lapping,
Your last breath's sigh is soft and gentle,
As the silent night laments your passing.