The Aftermath

The aftermath of an  ending
Is like a distant mocking laughter
That never seems to cease
Or endless senseless mutterings
Of regrets and doubts  

Breakups are like smeary fingerprints
On the walls of the heart
a smudged painting on the soul
they are never really completed
yet never need the finishing touches

there is always that familiar figure
in a crowd of thousands
and you feel like reaching out
until you realise it’s a stranger
the storm within will start again

you look within yourself
was the poison worth it
was the hurt worth it
or the anger and the hatred
or the cuts and wounds within

The aftermath is never pretty
No fragrance wafting from exotic places
Or Elysian fields, pretty flowers all in a row
It’s devastation upon the soul
A desolation within the heart

But the air will be fresher
Although the future unclear.