She loved me once. Then … she loved me not. The former, I often heard; the latter … not ever.
But actions … and omissions to act … speak volumes … deafeningly.
And so my sick heart now hurts less; for romantic declarations aside, aside from our Creator,
nothing’s forever … but Him … or Her; and that’s comforting … most definitely.

That (S)he is forever is most comforting; but there have been other comforts … since she
loved me not. That a heart is mended is, largely, an inconsequential one;
but knowing that beyond actions speaking loudly, that inaction speaks volumes … deafeningly,
is altogether, another. That latter slice of wisdom ought matter … to everyone.

Art’s life’s been more dissolute than resolute. He’s lost much held dear, especially a child whom
would have turned twenty-one years young, this Autumn’s October.
But Arthur’s losses; of parents, child, wife and life oft pale next to that of others, whom
struggle in … Allah/God/Jehovah/Yahweh’s … time river.


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