Beneath the willows weeping shade,

Where time forgets, and dreams they fade,

There lies a stone, alone, apart,

It marks the grave of a broken heart.

No name is carved, no dates remain,

Just weathered cracks etched by tortuous pain,

The moss has grown where teardrops fell,

Each blade of grass a tale to tell.

It once beat wild, it once beat true,

Like the promises mad twixt me and you,

But love once gold turned ashen grey,

And slowly bled its life away.

The winds do speak in haunted tones,

Of midnight sobbing and unanswered phones,

Of letters sent but left unread,

Of vows once said, now just echoes inside the head.

No mourners come, no candles gleam,

Just ripples of a shattered dream,

Yet still the earth holds tender guard,

This sacred plot of ground so hard.

So tread not close, nor speak too loud,

For grief she wears a solemn shroud,

Now let golden silence be the final art,

That paints this grave of a broken heart.