Lacrimoso.

Presto! In careless tiptoe, she slips and strains,
For tempo kills rubato and her verse slays listlessness.
Adagio for my tune, rhymes could do the trick
she's vivace with talk, in humor - slapstick.

Now I'll wait, for agitation can help reconcile,
a moribund expression and a temporary smile;
thankfully the music ignores, hits crescendo
but life is grave and the prose strikes morendo.

And slowly, au mouvement she shrieks,
since she's lost the ability to think, clearly
and with me, the pretence comes wearily,
for its not my song which is dead, its her poetry.

Brick.

Sure 'bout the coiffure,
she swiveled and swerved,
just when she felt I saw her,
Hardly had another ever known.
Gift wrapped in expression,
sweating hands 'neath her wings,
for within the spiraling distance
neither was forthcoming.
Because ego states crashed,
much vermeil than looks I wore,
and so we slowly broke apart;
as she lay sanguine to the floor.