There are no happy endings.
Endings are the saddest part,
So just give me a happy middle
And a very happy start.–Shel Silverstein – Every Thing on It
Take Me Home
By T. A. Fry
It came to nothing, nothing less than grief.
A grief of narrows, a prescience lessened,
No – depleted of volition, beneath
Lame-blames of why bright love prescinds.
In the end, you would not let me buy
Even cream. Nothing too small to be denied,
Each offered comfort for a grievous sigh,
Cups of bitter-black cooling as we cried.
I asked, “what part of it was not belief?”
You said, “All of it”. . . . Apparent you thought
Something could be bent by love into relief
When all alone, that right has to be wrought.
If these truths are not enough to batten,
Then down, down, deep-down, the hatches fasten.
I think praying mantis have romance figured out. There are certain species of mantis and arachnids that the females bewitch their male suitors with enticing pheromones (Chanel #5) and after having wild sex with them, they bite off their heads while the males are still in orgasmic bliss, consuming them for a little post-coital protein snack so that they don’t have to get out of bed to go to the fridge. The only downside is Pfizer’s business model for Viagra would be shot to hell, no repeat customers but at least us miserable sex-smitten suckers would be put out of our misery in one final act of glory, or is that gory…..
I am not suggesting that we legalize patricide or boyfriendicide but in the #metoo moment that we currently live in I do think we might be able to pass a bill that would reinstate the use of public stocks as punishment for a week as part of a rehabilitation program prior to going to prison 5 to 10 years for men like Bill Cosby or Harvey Weinstein.
But what happens when love ends the good old-fashioned way, it disappears behind a pail of dirty diapers or under a mountain of bills, and the vagaries of life and health overcome romance? That’s when we are left to wondering, why wasn’t love enough and regretting that we somehow couldn’t make it work.
by William Shakespeare
That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, you’ve passed a hell of time;
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
O! that our night of woe might have remembered
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me, then tendered
The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits!
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
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