"Love is a flower
Best left unpicked
By the hand of mortal man"
He said to me
One autumn evening
By the pillar of fire and ice.
With a heart that keeps on beating,
He shows of lovers cheating,
Of death most foul and dark,
Thus falls the chirping lark -
Then, a silence falls upon the hill
A spirit weeps a sea of tears
And we watch in agony
Until the mad hatter
Makes us forget
While days become years
Till one day we see again
The pictures on our walls
That decorate these halls
Most hallowed
And before we are allowed
To think too deep
We must depart
To the final sleep.

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Normally, I hate poems like this, but this one's different, because it's by me. I don't know whether this is autobiographical or not, probably not, but must I analyze everything? I wonder which poets I have ripped off this time (oh how I wish I were just joking!).