Love Poem Number 137

Her parents named her Passion Apple

A unique name, one would notice

One stormy day in a funeral chapel

They met, she smelled of white lotus



And he of damp Birchwood

There was a rugged feel to their gaze

She stood, in her soaked opera hood

As he stepped from his chaise



In the later month they wed

A flower so aromatic

Wine and graham bread

Exceedingly aristocratic



They often danced to never forget

That when it rains,

Her beautiful sobriquet

In his mind remains



It was an unusual place

The landscape was stark

His body lie, with blood was laced

The heavy fragrance of winter’s bark



At the funeral chapel

She fell to her knees

Unfortunate Passion Apple

Her heart is without a key