In all of time’s worlds there is no equal,

Widowers of love thus live life solo,

Intimacy may be hearts’ leitmotiv,

Lone souls’ however have no such pleasure,

Live on the fringes of melancholy,

All the days and nights tinged in indigo,

Longing for a life naif youth bid adieu,

Wordless depths of passion’s dreamlike breadth,

Antiqued forevamour, life’s portmanteau,

Yore now beyond yesteryear’s hinterland,

Sterling lined memories, love’s patina.

A decasyllabic 11-line stanza. In Shakespearean tradition I’ve invented a word for this poem. It’s a portmanteau: forevamour (forever + amour).