She Loves Me Not

A rolling cloud treads its way along tracks in the sky
and through its mercy, a short Summer blast serves as a warning for the oncoming storm.
It was silent before, as I strolled through the isles watching lady Earth embrace even those she dislikes.
Yet she looks sickened here; her scattered bulges resenting what she'd been given.
Why is this so? If we are all of her and to her we return, what causes her this illness?

I should inquire.

- Along the rows,
along the stones,
along their cravings - to the bone.
Along their dreams,
along what seems
to be the berth of fallen things. -

I motion for the storm to slow as I tread over the unkempt grass lining a dimple in the ground;
she must like this one, she's holding it rather close:
"And what might you be?" ask I.
"I am what stole." comes a breathy reply.
"Then why does she hold you so?" I question its cry.
"What I thieved was hers and never mine."

She loves it not after all. She's only reclaiming.

- Along the rows,
along the stones,
along their cravings - to the bone.
Along their dreams,
along what seems
to be the berth of fallen things. -

The bulge of a swollen plot catches my eye as I stumble over a forgotten flower vase.
The roses wilted with daisies dead, now dripping with the sprinkles of an impatient sky:
"And what be you?" I ask, alone.
"Please, end this life." came a broken drone.
"But...that's already true." I drop in tone.
"Then take heed, this plight!" shakes the dome.

"Does she not love you..?" ask I, confused.
"She'll love me never! How I envy you!"

Nor does she love this.

- Along the rows,
along the stones,
along their cravings - to the bone.
Along their dreams,
along what seems
to be the berth of fallen things. -

Beneath a tree in the falling rain sits an old man with book in hand, oblivious to the sky.
I greet him with my only name as he marks his page and sets it down upon a cloth, neatly by his side.
"Might you be new, young man?" he asks with a smile.
"I thought love of her.." I fall, beguiled.
"Might I share here, a rhyme?" questions he, refined.
"Will it satisfy this cry?" My response, in denial.

And so he rhymed in a voice, sublime:

"Along the rows,
along the stones,
along their cravings - to the bone.
Along their dreams,
along what seems
to be the berth of fallen things.
As death does call
upon their doors
they scratch and crawl to break its walls.
And should they be
of the obscene,
her love won't show; no, never indeed."

Tears, they well within these eyes
as his voice still echoes in my mind.
They fall to the saddest melody
of "She loves them not, nor will she me."