Devoid

My love is a flower turned from the sun
Rainstorms and wind have worn down her soul
Alone in a field without anyone
She opens her petals, cups rain in her bowl

My love is a whisper silent and calm
Often not heard over piercing screams
Poetic through habit, much like a psalm
First wait in shadows, then bite rather mean

My love, an idea by no means real
An object of all affection not mine
Intangible of course, never to feel
The beat of a heart, the wisdom of time

As the last petal falls from her frail stem
Nothing is left but love devoid of him