the distant train whistle
the silence of a baby who has forgotten what it was like
for someone to come when she cried
a token of love shattered into ceramic slivers
the wild frightened glance of an adolescent trapped in their mind's tricks
the scent of dying roses
old letters from a love that spun apart,
questions that remain
the way the colours sink into the ground after the late fall rain,
leaving only muck
the roaring silence and the old man's dull stare
it hurts, oh it hurts
unexpected, a flooding whisper overwhelms the pain
"This is not where the story ends, dear one.
This is not where the story ends."
And, setting in with the chill after the sun's set, a peace.
In the dark, we wait and hope.
It is enough.
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