At some point,
Romance Ends.
It just does.

For my husband,
this is
true Relief.

Look, I am his home.
He has arrived
at a place of comfort.
He is happy to
put his feet up.

Where is home for me?
A woman must always
have a kind of
She wears it like
that she cannot give up,

Because women mustn’t
give up their lipstick.
It would be a head-shaking, shame,
for a lady to
so put her feet up.

Wandering through
the dense forest
that is the many
of this life
my own feet veiled by fog
and my eyes dim
in the sunless realms,
just hoping that the trees will
soon grow spars,
if I carry on,
open up to a
great green pasture,
where a picnic is
prepared for me
and butterflies dance:
Magically, I will
clothes for a summer gown and
float as on delicate
shoes of glass
to the strawberries and cream,
and my lover there,
waiting for me,
his eyes glinting,
I will sit and put my feet on his lap
and we will laugh!

My heart tells me, it will be,
if I just keep wandering on,
through these dark trees.

In the end-
Everyone dies.
Everyone goes,
or at least,

In the end,
I will be glad I tried.
I will say, “I fought.”
Wont I?
And will I say, “I danced.”?
“I supported.”
“I gave of myself”?
What will leave me satisfied?
That I put my feet up?
or that I never ceased to strive?

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