The Being and Life

A life in which there's no intrigue
No custom of one's hurt
The mourning of one's life alone
Fatigue, when all would desert

All that's left within her palms
The truth inside, alone
No memory of how life went
And how it soon was gone

How love came through and made it's way
The passion made her brave
The every-day enchanting world,
The cross upon her grave

The warmth within her heart has died
The feelings were all scattered
What happened every single day
No longer seemed, had mattered

His care for her was rarely deep
His fragile feelings inside,
Though now that fate has met her soul
There's no thoughts for him left inside

The lifeless figure upon the floor,
His corpse no longer responding
The traces of him killing himself
The being and loss corresponding