Robert Smith Biography

I stole this poem, yes I did
It isn't mine to publish
But every word I write myself
On paper reads like rubbish.
...

o widow! what is it you mourn?
is it the man? or labor borne?
the loss of love? or yea the past?
perhaps that beauty cannot last?
...

i walked a mile in her shoes
(but where they led i'll nary tell)
for not the same i'll ever be
(alas they hurt my feet as well!)
...

her pen met the paper
a dot, jot, a tittle
a letter a word
then a phrase then a verse
...

can i tell you a secret?
i'm not supposed to tell
a secret all about you
that pertains to me as well
...