Beginning

byAngeline©

It ends
and it never ends. Images
of blood and screams echo
in you. There is no reason
for guilt, but years grind
with Why in floods of tears,
shed or not.

Maybe you should have
"something." Maybe,
but this is illusion,
self-inflicted.

We don't live inside
each other much
as we want to believe it.

It ends
and it never ends. One day
instead of coffins
and your own pallor
draining your imagination,

you remember a flower
and some long ago morning
in a sunny yard
when you held that yellow bud
under her chin and asked

Do you like butter?

and that is healing.

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byAngeline© 7 comments/ 3190 views/ 0 favorites

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