My own soul burns, too,
in a Saturday-iron yard sadness
wondering if my Mardou's light still burns,
yet not venturing to find out either way.

I cry, too,
in my own weird way
knowing I only sicken my own heart,
pitting what is precious
against the drunken chaff of the past.

I know that, someday
just as your own light no longer shines
the apartment empty,
your memories, both, faded to dust

My own tale, too...will reach an end
Myself, the player
Whose part as played,
will turn out tragedy or love once known
having lost.