a poem about what appears to be a recurring theme
Once I had traversed the gloom,
preaching tales of woe and doom,
exiled to my lonely room,
and left to find her there.
A spark of hope instilled in me,
bright enough for most to see.
The bliss that rose from tragedy,
and all there was to share.
We spoke at length about the past.
She went first and I went last.
'Twas too late then, the die was cast,
for then she saw the truth.
Her perceptive lens was cleaned,
after all that she had gleaned,
of my views and what I'd been,
ingrained since times of youth.
Assurances of promised lands,
where anyone would take my hand,
I couldn't seem to understand.
To forget the past is doom.
I need to stay tense and alert,
to any signs that threaten hurt.
She saw me then, as less than dirt,
and left me to my room.
I try to speak but she won't hear,
confirming all that I have feared.
Again, abandonment is near.
Tricked by it's disguise.
Another chance to let her see,
whatever side she wants of me.
Put on a mask and maybe be,
less worthless in her eyes.