The Truth is..

[backdated, months ago, at that moment when,]

.. what is the truth, really? whether
the clock turned back was true
to the two hearts, and nothing less
than sincere, and loved, and real,
but became helpless to remain, and survive so

or that deceit, betrayal and intents lurked deep, hidden
from the eye where not one crack
was revealed nor questioned, ’til too late
the sea of heartaches slash over,
never-ending words beating her down; whipping, lashing,

for not one, nor two, nor three,
but almost four have spoken out in similarity,
against; in judgement; and half not sought out
so pain’s the result, immense grief and devastation
– the consequences, but at whose expense?

[the heart believes him that no, but
the mind asks others that yes, could it be? and
everything in-between puncture and bleed, all
torn up, broken down, stomped on and ripped apart.]

[and now’s the present, written at this moment when,]

true is as true as the sun rising each new dawn,
as certain as a flower needs her water,
the heart seeks and aches, yet deep within
it knows, the core that holds the truth, which
has always been so, which has been inscripted since–

but does anything matter now? just like how
seasons come and go, people have their entrances
and exits. doors face her, close to her yet open to another,
maybe more, she does not want to know [but she does], so
Here sees her half turned to go yet turning stay

thus anguish and numbness co-exist; fighting,
clamboring, reaching, clawing, waiting
for that one chance to take over, to kill.
yesterday’s farewell, today’s heartache,
tomorrow’s memories, – they do not fade,

they intensify.

[it is at many moments she dream, those are dreams
devoutly to be wish’d. to dance, to love;
to laugh, to be. with him. she yearns for it, but
she wonders about that, and still she cry.]

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