The Man Who Would Be Hers
The man who would be hers, trembled in a nerve-lock
And saw how short was time, how short his breath;
Small inklings of how it began to shift to ending,
How he stopped asking, she stopped expecting, then death.
Whatever he had dreamed in the magnet hemispheres
Slowly ceased to matter in the centre of his heart;
And with passage of time and her cruel to be kind rejections
Sent him backing through confusion, the truth, then depart.
The man who would be hers, stripped down to a pauper,
Emotionally bankrupt and too weary to be hurt,
Kept the best of memories and simply damned the rest,
And never shed a single tear as his love died in the dirt.
His thoughts rotated colder in a barricade of ice
That once she had thawed with her irreplaceable touch;
He shrugged and shut her in his past, buried with no flowers,
In moments smiled and told himself she didn't care that much.
The man who would be hers looked forward in repair,
Declared he had a life with some prospect to attack;
Petite and blonde, a new rose bloomed, for better or for worse,
Come Hell or some equivalent, he never would look back.
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