You were the straw,
my heart,
the camel’s back.
For the last time
broken,
nothing intact.
Then suffocation,
from the lack.
The  colors drained
from rainbow dreams.
The shell is bleached,
then all is black.
Fond memory,
long buried,
ancient artifact.
The art of love,
the course of life,
by their very natures
are inexact.
The visions fade.
Hindsight cures
the heart of
cataracts.
Yet what one sees,
the sheer impact,
that life
without love,
becomes very
matter of fact.

M. Zane McClellan

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