He pretends to
listen and then turns away;
Turns away to
continue his day.
He no longer
cares if she knows she's not loved.
There was love
once ... maybe twice.
A persistent
ringing in his ears
From incessant
chit-chat through the years;
The echoes of
her oblivion foment
A deluge of
denial and missed love.
Too late for him
to escape, save to
His gardens
where, except for
The ringing in
his ears, it is quiet.
Peaceful, and
finally, finally quiet.
It's much too
late for her tears to
Cultivate a love
for whom
The weeds of
pity have overgrown
The gardens of desire he tends alone.
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