The Empty

It’s an empty existence.

When ones loss bares such a weight upon the soul that any shred of hope wilts and festers and tastes of naught but ash. The shadows dance with the ghosts of memory in the ceaseless melancholy waltz of despair.

An endless cycle of blaming oneself for words let loose like bullets, never to be retrieved once they’ve hit their mark.

The assumption that Love will be ever present and enduring of any fire storm hailed upon it proves folly far too oft for those whom hold the smoking gun.

And yet still we draw aim.

Never considering the silence. Neither ones own nor the eternal of such loss.

It’s an empty existence.

An existence shared with those whom have touched one’s soul only to be asphyxiated with the chain of consequence.

Love will die one day, that much is inevitable.

One should not allow the chains of anger and consequence to strangle it.

One day they will be gone, leaving one begging in the maddening silence for but one last day together.

Love as if knowing that day has already arrived.