Nothing

It was not so long ago,
The lustre of your curls,
Were entwined in fierce vertigo.

A cold all consuming,
An experience unknown,
To those of us still beating,
Our wings,
Desperately.

Was the scream of the maiden,
Upon the rock,
Too late?
No, not a useless gesture...
Please.
The story tape.
Dreaded.

This, the last purge,
Of the feelings,
That once were mutual.