reaping what we sowed 

parting ways after the season has arrived completed

we descend again two drifters

as if never had there been eye contact

neither capable of smiling

but it cannot be called loss, loss requires losing what we once had

and in the books, there is no record forthcoming

no tale spun to officiate what may have occurred

i beget this silence, silently is the silent torture of it all

yet neither capable of turning around to see

the other drift off a shadow across the landscape

fading into that blackness of time

all things reach their end

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