Poetry

The tale of us is at an end

and now all that is left

Is a sad, slow denouement

the dance of love bereft.

All the crises have been resolved

the plot, once thick, has thinned.

Our sets dismantled, stage empty,

because we’ve reached the end.

Our love was but a fantasy

of rainbows and moonbeams,

A dream rent by reality;

loves’ seldom what it seems.

The curtain on our play has closed,

now we play other parts;

Picking up the bits and pieces

left of our shattered hearts.