You see, I have been writing. I’ve actually been working on this piece for a few weeks. It was inspired by just one more of those crimes of passion murder-suicides in the newspaper, as well as a situation I recall hearing about on one of my life’s fringes, the players and details of which I no longer remember.
I wrote the first two stanzas, and I stalled, because I felt it wanting to get long, which I didn’t want. Well, I got what I wanted, and you get stuck with the harsh ending. Take comfort in this: reading about it wasn’t nearly as harsh as living it had to have been.
This is just my imagination of what drives some people to these extremes.
Be well, peeps, and wwlcome to some darkness.
The bond that had existed was broken.
the path they had walked lay behind.
As they parted there was a sadness not spoken,
behind the relief and the ease of their minds.
They had tried with all might just to make it,
both vowing to never let go
but had gotten to when they could
no longer fake it,
and their days
were bathed in the woe.
They had built their something on nothing,
lives filled with unsustainable things;
they had chased every fad and fancy
and reaped all of the nothing they bring.
He ended it all in a mall parking lot,
with two in her face and one in his brain, and the pile of trinkets and baubles they’d built
was all the nothing that remained.