Then what becomes of ended love?
A stale and twisted turn of fate.
A shattered frame of what it was.
Now creeping in, a taste of hate.
Where once was warmth, a chill has spread
And strangers lock accusing eyes.
Yet sweet relief with passion dead,
A shield for hearts from endless lies.
This tale was spun from wounded silk
That sagged and wept from too much weight.
An acid stain from sour milk,
A scar from caution played too late.
This is the question now to ask,
For answers lost, or never said.
To say for sure is no small task.
So let it rest, come back to bed.