A recent discussion about the obsession with Hollywood starling divorces
has got me to wondering if love is still something that anyone ever endorses.

When grocery stores peddle the Hollywood gossip of constant unfaithful behavior,
The Star and the Globe and the National Enquirer all sell like they’re offering salvation.

No wonder its normal when people don't notice the pulse of their marriage has flat-lined.

So when did it start that 'in love' is a prison and the moonlight brings nothing but lonely?
And why is the suffering in silence accepted and all of the torture seem normal?

If the one whom you live with is hit by a bus do you howl at the loss as horrific?
Or is death a fulfillment, reprieve from the anguish of all that you worry eternal?

To be honest with self, I must simply confess that the latter was always my longing,
then longing got lucky while she was out walking,

a bus hit that ***** and kept going.