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Love is Dead.
Love is Dead
I met a person a day ago,
Who I'd shifted concrete for,
And shovelled and washed with barrow,
For what I'm not too sure.
For I was limping up the street,
With hobbled feet and sturdy stick,
And he looked so pleased to see me,
In my own awkwardness of disbelief.
It is not him, it's me the say reputedly,
I only know what I have seen,
From the crimson knuckles bruisedd,
To a life of limited ease.
Along and over we get,
And up and down we go.
But if this is all to sweat.
Then love has died also.
(c)R,H.Elliott
