Too Late. A poem.

How could you say the things you did?
And how could I respond in kind?

Every bitter reproach
Like a roadmap of our pain
Every recrimination
Like a hammer to my brain
Holding back the tears
Letting emotion and volume have their way
Where logic would have saved the day
Two mules head butting
Unable to back down
Two recalcitrants enabled

In the aftermath
When all is said and done
When acrid smoke rises from the craters of regret
Realising you can’t take back what was said
And you wish you never had
But it’s too late
Far too late for that

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