That's it — even rhyme won't breathe here

That's it — even rhyme won't breathe in here. There was a temple of love, but it's all used up. Yet the flame keeps reaching higher, And then it's worse, then comes flattery. The hymn of pretence was not written by me, The music of lies is thundering. Yes, you're a wonderful actress, But your audience, alas, is not me. I'll sleep it off, sit down by the grave, And read again on the headstone The darkened and dreary text: Here lies love...