Tarnished Lined Trinket Box (Photo credit: Heartlover1717)
“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.” Anais Nin
This was irrefutable and immutable
A devastating but so simple truth
The realisation, slow awakening
to the murdering of a dream
A death so calculated and awaited
Planned in darkened rooms to soothe some pain
you carried from a youth long left behind
but not forgotten, I was pinned,
the butterfly to the wall of your revenge
You saw my innocence, the lack of guile
as opportunity, a feast to be ravaged
by your shadowy, dissolute tastes, you saw
the open heartedness with which my eyes
met yours, you made a choice
and hid there in that dread decision for so long
A troubadour you sang your beauteous song
to trick me and to fool me like the child
you might have been once
back in those days before the deluge
of your pitiable adolescence
I am not your tormentor though you cast me as such
Not your predator, though you set your nets
as though to trap me by seeming to be caught
You were skilful yet I know within
you hoped somehow to fail, to prove it all
just forgotten debris like the tarnished, withered form
that was your already broken heart.
(c) Helen Valentina 2013, All Rights Reserved
For mindlovemisery’s prompt – see the prompt and her wonderful writing at http://mindlovemisery.wordpress.com
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