Seriously speaking, this is not a poem. (At least I didn't intend to make it a poem when I wrote the first words :p) -------------------------------------------------------------- So the story ended in a metaphysical way, as a philosopher would end it. The lines of tragedy were opaque, yet the sorrow was vivid; and at the start of every new chapter would be quoted the sceneshifter's sigh: "The road goes on un-ending..." We say, our love ended metaphysically because love was not the issue. It was the violence of copulation, the heat of osculation, the warmth of thy rosy lips, the tears on thy cold cheeks - that mattered. For the soul did not dominate our story, the flesh did. Yes, agreed the old man down the street corner, their love was indeed metaphysic. It comprised of every element necessary to a best-selling romance: it began in storm and ended in ruin. Blood was split, the bones ached. Yes, the war was authentic, but their love was not. You swore, you cried, your pain so honest, my anger so real. But what went wrong? I could not tell. Love sounded promising, now I find it nil. It ended metaphysically, my love, as a poet would put it. We thought we had went through all turmoils, yet our foot never left the opening scene. -- In the House of Remaining Snow, We dance and sing, make merry while the days are long. --

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