Weeds Of Neglect Poem by Mark Heathcote

Our love hasn't yet pleaded poverty,
but there are days, my dear - it goes hungry.
Do you think our love has a life, condemn?
That withers away like our last encounter.
It's bled so much like a cut flower stem.
It withers and shrivels like a burnt flower.
It rolls its head into the shadows cool, hem.
Here, not even the wild mint can tower.
Above the weeds of neglect left to grow
they've divided us like Juliet & Romeo.