The Death of Love

I mourn the unmarked woman
flushed in the flames
of desiring gazes
luxuriating in sensuality
loving freely without walls

I mourn the rebuilt woman
fighting despair with rage
crawling over the shattered remains
of her former self to stand
battered and bruised, but steady

I mourn the fragile woman
that learned to be loved again
accepting pain as payment
for pain purchased
so dearly before

I mourn the foolish woman
that dared to love once more
betrayed, without a thought
foolish enough to grant another chance
to be shattered again

I am the tired woman
worn old before my time
turned bitter and bearing scars
not flinching
nor unbroken