poem

Nothing else matters
Does it?
When the greatest of love die's.
When the red rose wilts upon the alter
And the rafters fill with sigh's.
The lightest of breezes may caress the tree's,
Yet the leaf will break and fall.
However much the branch would swoon,
Only crows to answer the call.

The pretty young woman who speaks of weather,
Say's nought much but rain.
The heavy boots of cow-hide leather
Stain the socks that itch the brain.
The jacket pinches below the arm,
Cuts in and then cuts out.
And the heart pinches below the calm,
cut in and then cut out.

What is it I could possibly say
That would help to ease the pain?
All I can say to each of you
Is, "was she ever the same?"