endings signal a fall.
they are the morning calls
of grief,
the shallow tremors of loss
that echo the drowning gasps.
they are the pain that scorns all scars,
the pain that deafens the call to inhale.
the strangled note to end the song that's played in our hearts for the last three years.
this end of the symphony leaves only a feeble echo.
the tainted remnant of a love gone quiet.
YOU ARE READING
weeds.
Poetrysometimes you need to return to the soil to feel the triumph of what once grew.
