Autumnal branches scratch the midnight sky,
Ensnaring clouds, diaphanous above.
Exsanguinated moonlight drifting by
Illumines moaning words of absent love.

"They're gone, they're gone..." The figure, shadow drenched,
Emits the scent of dusty, damned despair.
"Before, my lantern's wick was never quenched,
And vernal laughter danced the very air.

"But now"—the voice a sob of silk and sand—
"Forgotten, tossed aside, bereaved, despised,
A child's toy. Abandon wonderland!
Prosaic life demands the undersized!"

The ghost of rhyme departs, her metered tread
Forever lost to ears engorged with dread.