The death of a foolish poet, on the anniversary of his asininity.

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The death of foolish1 poet, on the anniversary of his asininity.

I watched as the last box went out the door.  That was it.  The final stake driven into in my humiliation, and perhaps the first step to my rebirth.  It was most certainly a lesson in misplaced trust.

I never wanted to forget the injury, so I entered it on my calendar like an anniversary date.  Forgive, yes, knowing me, I will.  Forget?  I don’t ever wish to, and again, knowing me, I would.

It is a battle scar, a reminder of a failed moment when a phoenix died in the ashes.  It is also a reminder that trust needs be grounded in reality.  It is a signpost: Do not go this way again.  A warning: rhymes are for youth.  A consolation for grief.  I’m sorry for your loss.  Here’s a hug for ya …

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