The ordeal will come to an end at once.
Not a conclusion,
not a fall of curtain,
not a standing ovation,
for the unlikely performance,
long endured.
Just an end,
mediocre, mundane,
abrupt, blunt.
End that was long denied
by clods of nostalgia
and longing loams.
With hate finally freed of reason,
Love turned to a crow - unwelcome,
cawing away songs of the days
when verses weren't (as) hoarse.
And many nights,
tossing in bed,
at times asleep,
deep enough to forget who he is,
the hand will wander for that familiar touch
under the blanket of darkness
that'll never see the sunrise again.
Hands, of course, are an appendage of heart,
flung far from the brain that's trying hard
to remember how to hate,
to forget how love once felt more natural
than the hatred that's now
a second-hand nature.
Hate that's now the preferred moniker
to replace the one
that had better remained
unknown to the tongue.
Love that now weighs down heavy
upon the days,
like the name on a forgotten face.
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