Point me out my most enduring ache. Any road out
will do, it’d seem. Any road in’d make any road out.
Loves that were true can’t be replaced. Those not
recognized as such will be free to take any road out.
The dream is gone. No moon will bed any gathering
meant to be kept in. No sun will wake any road out.
Why will one who’s even held the truth inside herself
go to extremes to lie to herself to fake any road out?
It’s what goodbyes are there for, Cyn: leaving behind
chances that might have hope to break any road out.