An empty chasm eons wide,
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An open, gaping hungry maw,
A wound with edges ragged worn
And by our salty tears kept raw
Lies smirking, dark between us two
Uncrossable, slopes far too steep.
You lie grieving on the one side-
On the other bank, I weep.
I try to fill it even now
By casting poems into the black;
Mere pebbles, plinking off the walls
But darling, poems are all I have.
I’ll write until the Doomsday, love
With ink of blood, and quills of bones
If only for the chance I might
Yet walk to you on tiny stones.