The strangers in town often ponder aloud in wonderment,
Who is he who leaves flowers on an unmarked grave?

Posies of roses, dew kissed, freshly laid yonder,
What of the Queen who sleeps in this sepulcher of eternal spring?

Some whisper, quiet, ‘In life he told her he loved her- Left her, broke her heart,’      Now all he does is say her name.

The thought of it haunts the hearts of the unsullied even.
‘Nay, it must all be feign. For he must’ve loved her, each and every day.’

The verity lies somewhere between the lies. For in life-
He could hardly ever love her. In her death, it’s all he ever did.

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