A vicious cycle, of hurt and of loss--

Mother, sister, young heart's first love, a friend—

Be death or debate, left strung with swords crossed,

Something has passed; we have come to an end.

Betrayal is felt from the living, left

Standing in cold and beginning to sway

From shock, shame and hurt, snapped weave on the weft

Of life—a tear that will threaten to fray.

And who could offer condolences now?

Yes, what could the living say to the dead?

"It's better this way, you'll get by somehow."

Aye, but now shadows come; fear, hate, and dread.

How much must be cut 'fore I start anew?

All of it, gone—it was all tied to you.

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A betrayal, cutting so deeply that the poetry muses got out. I like sonnets. 3