The Wayward Mile

Everything had ended at the first line. He'd been his own demise; his thoughts the overture. He penned down his life; bled to paper the way he knows best a story of betrayal. Murder she wore that day; and murder he wrote A pause at the title and a deep sigh until the words spoke to him that day. Death was a hearse they drove; love the unhealthy infatuation. She'd been all it was to him until she'd posioned him with hate. And there he sat and sat staring at a world he'd mourned and left behind the title that said it all. Everything did end at that first line. The beginning and the end Wayward Mile.