Termination of a Promise
I gave you a door that might have opened wide—
a chance, a simple handout of possibility.
Today the hinges squealed, the latch refused,
and suddenly the hinges themselves seemed broken.
In the ledger of our brief contract,
the ink has smudged, the clause reads:
Your services are hereby terminated, effective immediately.
Words—those blunt, unsharpened stones—
have landed where soft skin once lingered.
They bruise, they sting, they linger like ash
in the hollow of a once‑shared room.
I am moving forward, a river that refuses
to be dammed by the rubble of idle chatter.
Childish behavior? That’s a polite veneer—
a curtain drawn over the raw, unvarnished truth.
You wear the mask of maturity,
yet your actions echo a playground’s echo,
shouting “I’m grown” while the swing‑set creaks beneath.
The irony is a cold wind that slips through cracked windows.
So let this be the final stanza, the closing line:
a farewell not whispered, but stamped in bold,
a reminder that even polite words can be swords—
and that the future belongs to those who wield them wisely.