nothing moves

sets

or stops for minutes

as the

first shrill tingles run

from my eyes

carving across my scalp and

warmly clawing deep into my spine.

 

 

There was no hatred centuries deep

or stares that slashed like a butcher's cleaver,

only laughter,

snotting,

and tears.

 

An end is a beginning,

which is an end

unceremoniously followed by a beginning

until the pattern is old,

but really only an end.

 

No end to love

but a prelude in life leading to more

disappointment

or perhaps

something better.

 

Hope is for the naive fairy-tale guzzlers,

those with depraved common sense, 

and anyone who can't tell

asshole-vampire/bondage-fiction/romance

from reality.