By Anastasia Burton
My love was a noble man, a stubborn man,
A foolish man.
He wished to carry stars upon his shoulders,
Which, I always thought, looked like boulders,
He went to war with an airy pride,
Only for them to die in a tide,
I prayed and prayed,
–Lord, I beg you, spare him a meaningless death,
A stupid death, an empty death.
A man left my home,
Only his clothes returned.
He did receive those foolish stars,
But they would never be worn upon those shoulders,
Which, even in death, looked like boulders.
I buried him as I saw fit,
Our last argument,
My last hissyfit.
Even as he lay in that big coffin,
He looked like a noble man,
A stubborn man,
A foolish man,
The love of my life.