T'is it, this past, to then, be gone.
gone it is, this (morning/mourning) long.
When mourn has come, and then be gone.
T'is it too quiet, to come, this morn.
To simmer, this fire, this pain, this past.
to leave behind, this (mourn/morn), at last.
“Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.” ― William Butler Yeats
T'is it, this past, to then, be gone.
gone it is, this (morning/mourning) long.
When mourn has come, and then be gone.
T'is it too quiet, to come, this morn.
To simmer, this fire, this pain, this past.
to leave behind, this (mourn/morn), at last.
he found her that way,
in the bedroom with his best friend.
his loaded glock in his right hand
his anger in his left.
the choice, now to make.
it would change the world.
how long does one count
to ones self
before changing the world ...
years later , the children
did he love her still?
they burned through them all,
together and apart.
one luver after another.
now together, again they are.
he on one bedroom, she in another.
like a little wipped puppy, she was.
yet he luved her still.
yet to leave her he must,
to go on she will.
but the children between them they have,
to luv them still,
this choice to make,
this choice to share.