Last night my friend and I
died a little death, I thought
it would be glorious, it was not;
strange to feel sadness sharp,
like a dagger, I thought its pain
akin to blunt trauma;
there were no wrongs to right, nor
law to judge, and though a little death,
its wound was still fatal;
for without strike, stab or blow,
it managed to kill love itself.*
*the ability to love
I find this too vulnerable, in a personal and universal sense, to warrant comment.
I think this is becoming one of my favourite poems. Thank you Nige.
Oooh I like that. - Le petit mort - Great stuff