Oh the word that strikes mortal as of knife
puncture’s a wretched heart, a life in plight,
bequeathed in good faith, oh yes so rife
yet to a forlorn soul it does one smite.
Is it not that time of a lovers mind
under the moon and stars, nothing amiss,
where thoughtfulness of a heavenly kind
not the doom, gloom of an endless abyss.
So the word that disjoins is deemed to be
the ending of a friendship so extreme,
because together lovers belong, free
free of this word that loses self esteem.
Yet what to do if from this word refrain,
borrow from another “Auf Wiedersehn”?
© Harry J Horsman 2012