A night tour of bad loves lost

What becomes
of the broken hearted
but a pile of letters
of love lost
sentenced to
divorce.
Love, love, love!
Where alt thou?
But cast adrift
before stormy skies
all the while
on the shores of dread
Cupid sweeps the leftovers
of discarded arrows
their poisoned tips lie
on the tombstones of hope
amongst the arrangement
of dead flowers
and the blood
of hearts spilt
now garrotted.
What is left
hides in the shadows,
a scavenger’s request
of gothic intentions.