Morning calls

I'm leaving you

And you're without a clue

The spark we had

Has come and gone

Just as the season's flu.

Our greetings once
Were filled with smiles
Now they all run dry
And though my pen once sang of love
Now of pains it softly cries.

So here today and gone tomorrow
Dust to dust we move
And now the more I think
The more I know
That I am not for you.

-Victor Tinsdale