No Other Will Ever Come

The days slicker by, and the obvious
Must be stated. Upon pages past
The foraging has been chronicled,
And it seems no withery berries remain
For this misanthrope to harvest.
There was, at first, the hope for one,
One outstanding, superior,
And incontestable; but now
It's clear, the evidence is in,
The scrounge can cease, though
The cupboard's still bare.
The river's gone hard--its waters are shale;
The pinnacle sags atop gravity's pyre;
A conversation that should have commenced
Years ago has sewn up
Lips that yearned to be parted.
Goodbye, fair soul, whoever you were!
I await you no longer.
Should you happen to see me
On the street, in a lobby,
And recognize, perhaps,
A ballad untrolled,
Do not listen too closely
To that fainthearted melody--
Love is nothing more than an empty mold.