Awaited end

There was no other try
Left to make the best
Out of something so beautifulĀ
It was dead before it grewĀ
Anywhere, branches stretchingĀ
deceased leaves waitingĀ
To finally fall, off this special
One thing, my heart has fought forĀ
This was not loveĀ
An obsession, masked expensive colorsĀ
Still the gray took its form
When it reached the end,
We couldnāt fathom the thoughtĀ
Yet I wonder if all alongĀ
you knew.
Ā
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Comments
I like the metaphor of the tree particularly "deceased leaves." That phrase alone is so redolent of the whole meaning behind your poem. I also like the line "still the grey took its form." Almost like there was an inevitability about it and sure enough, like all good writers, you leave the revelation to the last two words. Brilliantly done.Ā