A Confession, or Something

An obsession

held tight

by a boy with too much might

now damns

with despair 

the man he tries to be

could not see

forests

for trees,

or leaves,

made of that

which was right in front of thee.

 

A pity, he’d say

A sadist, she’d claim

yet,

both they

and themselves

crave

that which was lost

immense in its cost

but lost, just the same

 

In name, 

the blame

is his mythical pain

yet she maintains

responsibility

with grace,

elegance, 

and humility

 

For the boy,

the man, 

can put forth his tries

to gaze

into those eyes

that shall not

see him

again

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