Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned
Death embalms individuals into perfection. In the passing of body, their flaws are forgotten, their boons are amplified. In death, a person is loved for eternity…once gone, they can do no wrong. And misgivings of the past, they are all forgiven. They are all forgotten. In death, only in death, can there be perfect love.
But to live. Ah to live. To live is to be subject to change. To be susceptible to the poison of time. Of mortal time. Fickle. Unstable. Relentless time. And revelations, they come with new days, they come as if bestowed from the divine. They come in rushes and gushes, they hit you in the face, they leave you bruises. They color you blind.
And in the passing of time, I have come to conclude, that it would have been better if you had not survived, if you had left to rest in peace in my mind. Because then, only then, to your memory could I be kind. For now, you leave a burn inside that festers and scorches. You leave pain that has eternity to roam. And my love has turned to something else. And my hell is your life. And my fury, it waits. and waits. and waits.
Your choices, your desires, your words, and your silence….they were unwise.
My fury, will take far more than time to subside.