but without his greatness
fooled again, both think
the same old, silly, stupid game
and the tales told by him, an idiot?
full of sound and fury now
signifying nothing

been through all this before
the unexpected proffered
the avowals
the withdrawal, after
the”…melancholy, long…roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world”
the love in the heart
then the erasing of beautiful memories that slowly become extremely painful
the increasing distance manipulated into existence
more and more, entering silence
more and more, entering absence
purposefully
to cover up for the crime of the century
that was not one in the beginning, seemingly

till finally nothing is left
except the whiteness of bone
which will, hopefully, atone to forgetfulness
as Eliot said
or to death
as is his wont to… say

why did he never learn
from before and before
and before and before
and before and before?
“sucker for punishment?”
was it really so?
no, just a simpler thing
the refusal or inability to hurt
when it would have been better to do it
right in the beginning itself
to cut it off at the root
something that can’t be done anymore
without causing self and other too much hurt, suffering and tears
too much water, as the cliche goes
having flown under the still rainbow-coloured arched bridge

of Cupid’s remorseless, meaningless, cruel bow
that cares neither for Bottom or Tatiana
or the goddess Venus or fleeing Adonis