The vulture mourns(at the death of love, part 2)

It was the best of times,it was the worst of times;
we loved with all our hearts,
we loved with all our best parts,
but foe(and perhaps friend too),
outside looking in,
albeit through smoky windows,
through stained glass of reputation past,
cast the stones of judgement,
and sung the chorus of old;
the chorus of lovers gone, lovers forlorn,
the ones handed over to the dark side,
but not before being worn out with twist and lie.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times;
who shall sing our praises?
Send the vulture.
The vulture is afterall a patient bird;
he will mourn for us,
and then feast,
at the death of love.

Dickson E Wasake
6 October 2010