February

A dismal, dreary, two fortnights
In which embittered tears are shed
As secret trysts result in fights
And lovers leave cold, empty beds.

One wanders in the clear, dark night
Past old abandoned, secret places
Where with another once clasped tight,
Apparent joy upon their faces.

Yet not long since, one took to flight
And left the other's warm embraces.
The latter searched, but try as might,
The former found in no known places.

A lover scorned, once clad in white,
Now wears the black inside the head.
The joy once felt, now out of sight,
Leaves lone lover, better off dead.