The Luxury Of Closure

Far be it for me to demand empathy,
to expect compassion, to extract reason.
Lo unto my dwindling ego, my decaying pride a sense of compression, a creeping restriction.
To wash ashore too romanticised, to stay asunder neglectful.
Tongue tied, arms bound, gut wrenched, the art of decision falls to the axis.

They say time heals all wounds...
They say a lot of things.