The Terrible Thing
So here, now, after grieving with stars and rivers. With tears,
It comes. The terrible thing that you knew all along,
But could not bring yourself to think,
Much less to speak.
In a hall, a photo, framed. Just two summers past.
And there, in the middle, the Angel beloved,
Like fresh human sunlight.
And she has told you no,
But you cannot believe, accept or let go.
Stomach tumbles, and you snap your eyes away,
And now you avoid that hall each time you go there.
And the terrible thing is, you no longer have love,
For her, who is yours, anymore.
She, who has given you so much.
Has loved you so much.
Whom you have loved, in return, so much.
She, who would cross deserts if you were but to ask.
Who has carried you through deserts.
You tell her and yourself, that your mind has been broken,
That your heart is sick, and you no longer feel love for anything.
That love is just a happy tale we tell our children,
In which you, grown up now, can no longer believe.
But, unholy and treacherous fool that you are,
Nothing yet has moved inside, in all these frozen months.
You would sooner a world with no love at all, than admit
To a love you cannot have and a love you cannot love.
Sooner die than confess to her the truth of these abysmal feelings.
Than break her heart the way your own has been broken.
You would never give such pain, nor forgive yourself if you did.
Ironic that this unloving love should make you care the more,
To shield the best friend of a lifetime,
From the terrible rays of this hurt.
If you but had the soul that a devil would covet,
Then so gladly you would trade it, to put all back as it was.
Restore people and things to their proper places and feelings.
Before what was so good and right went so terribly wrong.
Copyright © John Ferngrove 2009