vintage poetry

Karl found this poem folded and tucked into an outdated electrical box behind a wall in an old school he was rewiring. Why it would have been put there is a provocative mystery.

Living Death
At sixteen, and anything but sweet
The perfect girl, I thought I did meet

So young, so mine, with all her black hair
Until I found out, this love, I did share

It hurt me so, to learn how she lied
I swear, that night, for a thousand, I died

Hence, firmly I state, unmoved from Above
That ne'er again shall I [fall] believe in Love

Tho' sound in body & sound in head
I know inside, my heart is dead

Anonymous [Wilfred Johnston Svinley added in different ink]

I would love to find the author, though I suspect it's a false name.

Ah, love!