Sparkatale

They didn't make it much beyond a week
Before it went back down to hell
Neither bothering now to speak
Of the impending death of the unwell.

The sickly thing gasps in shaky breath
Trying desperately to make it through
But both of them know of its death
And know there's nothing they can do

To make this thing live once more
It was the victim of deep-rooted hate
That rattled it to its wounded core...
Now it waits to meet its untimely fate.

It's a tragic thing, watching something die
Especially when they had wanted it to be
But even after these countless tries
They refuse to simply let it go free

But why do they hang on so tightly
When they know that this life has failed?
The only thing that shines so brightly
Is all the anguish that has swelled.

Is all this suffering really necessary,
And is all of it worth these tears?
If it were love, wouldn't it be contrary
To spending all their time in fear?

The casket for this body is being constructed
And the grave for the bed is being made
The people around are slowly being instructed
That this poor thing cannot be saved.

And pretty soon it'll give up and succumb
It'll finally sink into its eternal sleep
They'll fall apart and this thing will become
Another source of misery stabbing deep.

Perhaps they deserve it for being so unwilling
To let nature run its course on its own
Instead their own anger caused this killing
Of a love that'll never be known.

The bed is slowly lowered into the ground
But bells will not toll and flowers go unplaced
Instead this death is celebrated without a sound
While two lives slowly become unlaced.

The second funeral will be harder than the first
Because with this one, there will be no revival.
The depression that's impending will be the worst
Knowing that there was never a chance for survival.