A romance fit for Adolf and Eva (bitter love poem!)

Each day you mourn 
Over my soul 
Pouring grief over me 
But I tell you 
I am dead 
You cannot raise me now 

When you had the chance 
You blew it
Like a plate before you 
Then taken away 
I gave you my love 
Our love now merely an autopsy 

So here I am 
Trodden upon 
Like stones of a village 
Eaten by filthy flies 
Pushed into the ground 

In a romance 

fit for 

Adolf and Eva