Love. Death. And all else.

I look out of my window
The Cold Seeping in,
Tales of the dead, strung along with the falling leaves
The woman, weeps over the grave
Of a man she spent her life with.

I could hear them fight,
Quarrel over tea,
Despise over dinner
Could their marriage get any thinner?

Ironic, we are
Hatred to the alive
And Love to the dead,
Loss, it Brings forth the truth.
-AS.

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