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the slow death

I understand now how fighting and bitter fury
can provide such a warm cloak
a haven
from the tepid drawn out agony
of the slow death

The silent sickening wave through the diaphragm
that sticks in the throat
and lingers pathetically
deep down into the stomach refusing to budge

Memory flashes
the knowledge
that this present bereavement of another love lost without rhyme or reason
is the aftershock of that other heart
ripped to shreds years before

An echo
that refuses to quite extinguish.

Rage-on, the violent protests and vanquish all integrity
and moderation. It is comforting to feel anger, and to hate.
Or there is this other way which I call love

Love will prevail any storm
and turn a broken heart into one that can receive love once more

But first the long slow death
must furrow through my soul
And I wonder what debris will remain
to call ‘me’, and all that may be left to glow
in the ashes
is love itself

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