Barbed Wire

The end of love is a rusty barbed-wire fence.

I know in my heart and my head, in every

Fiber that fastens my mournful being, that I

Should not attempt a crossing. And yet I convince

Myself that I will not play hypocrite to my own heart.

On the opposite side is the person with whom

I have shared gifts to overflowing, the sweetest sendings

And starlight order, sacred ration, so much beauty.

But her patience has morphed into pangs, and even the

Lives we've engendered, the virtuous and confounded children,

Cannot dissuade her purpose, her impulsion. I turn to her, beg,

With tears, remorse, lamentation. But her eyes are chasms

Of nullity; her heart rescinded. And still we are separated by 

The thorny fence. I shiver and lunge, bleeding into nothingness.