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.