Seven times you asked,
and seven times the silent reply held,
the tongue cannot abide the lie,
and truth embodied deep in mind
speaks not of it tender acceptance.
Tis not love that falls, but we,
imperfect as we are to be,
in life where change implores us move on,
because our time is done,
and sadness cannot explain, its silence reign.
My despair, in countenance,
is no ploy of disregard,
more the grief I feel for endings hard,
not of my will but knowing found,
to realise this change.
Seven times you plead with me,
to see reason and let this be,
but I cannot live the lie you suggest,
instead, cut clean before this tryst requests,
anger enter the ring.
My silence bares the truth,
and decision made in quiet, sombre consideration,
followed by my affirmation;
and believe me when I say
tis sad this ending on this day,
but the world beckons future alone.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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