A letter came and told of an answer
To a question he asked during winter
One he dread even more than death
Waste of minute of his breath
Its contents, the usual greetings
How she wished they had meetings
Be it under the moon or the stars
Be it on Earth, or as far as Mars
His blood boiled, temper rose
How can she not put this chapter to close?
With pen in hand and fury in mind
He struggled for words to find
One that says stop, another end
Of hatred, bore, cold and bend
Over, demolish, little, pretend
Finished, through, unmend
A pen unmoving, a mind blank
Paper filled, the words sank
Folded, handed, sealed, sent, gone
Whateve