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.