Dear Verona

Would it be –

That I am to sit, restless and waiting

For that perfect moment of bliss?

Perchance, I would beg to lay,

Dead, dagger in hand at the foot of he –

The one true love so desperately saught

and then –

To what end be I made?

For all the world to tear and clap at my demise;

To the applause of an achievement sought.

But what is this of love –

which only brings death through tears?

I, in lamented self-torture could equally slice the vein

to that end – nothing?

No heroic memoirs of life and love,

The union of souls absent in the departure of pain.

Does this not make the enduring reenactment?

What end is anything yet through theatrical bliss?

Nothing so endures in tragedy as the desired.

Not to have or win such favour but to be denied it.

Such a pain I dare not wish for any,

and yet for so many – a longing to act it.

To place themselves within it;

Only to realize that the ending never varies.

It is as ultimate and everlasting as the joy.

And to what madness such a verdict be desired?

To have only to lose –

and to love only to die.

 

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