The Seventh Circle

Oh death, must you take even this?

This joy closest to the divine,

this rapture furthest from despair.

To love is to commit suicide;

to rip what is most vulnerable out of your chest

and offer it to another.

So why must this too perish

if the cost is so high?

It is not an object you can glue back together,

a quilt you can mend,

nor a body you can lay to rest.

There is nothing left, and to mourn after it

is to wallow in the deepest pits of hell.

Everywhere love exists becomes

a torture chamber,

and everywhere the memories linger

becomes a trigger point.

There is nowhere to run

to escape its looming shadow,

this empty valley of rotten trees.

Oh, love, must you go?

Without your warmth

the world descends

into the seventh circle.