Mortem Amoris

In vain, I wait for wounds to heal through art,    
Art's healing properties may well exist:
You stole my heart - it nestled like a lark,  
In eaves where expectation nested - Twist  
My mistakes? Should I twist yours too? The sight  
Of putrid prick won't penetrate - it's ceased  
To spend itself through sex; it can't ignite  
Or rekindle our passions - faded pieces  
Are forgotten with lark calls: they never dry;  
Art's dedication really can't preserve  
A tortured, terminated trust; I'll cry,  
If sepsis won't set in soon; who'd conserve  
This bitterness and festering from fights  
That bring on love's demise; (while art delights).