Tis not my own words soured by complicity,
more your words delivered with such bitterness,
I cannot fathom this wrath, this tide against me,
when all along I chose to support you,
keep you safe in the arms of love and compassion,
yet what now faces me is contrition
for all you said and did to hurt me.
How can love become so malicious,
so vindictive in its failing,
when nothing I did was to provoke or hurt you,
yet I stand bleeding, accused of all your mind could contrive,
all you knew would wound this heart,
all that could unseat this adoration I once felt,
now turned to ash amid your bitter affront.
Change may take a toll,
may deliver us to other paths,
but you chose to burn all bridges,
to destroy all thought, all remnants of past,
as if the memories were the broken souls of war,
swept away before truth could cut your flesh,
and I, the most poignant remnant, cast aside cruelly.
Yet it wasn’t only me that hurt,
it was yourself, who could not deal with pain,
the pain and contentions of your childhood,
your past set aside as if a gift as yet unopened;
so instead you exploded,
burst at the seams of a vessel unfit to hold your woes,
and I, in the bast zone, hobbled by your neglect.
So here I stand, the villain,
the blame and perpetrator of your folly,
and still you draw blood, in delusion’s name,
just to make yourself not responsible for your own lies,
your own fantasy world,
and I an easy quarry,
for who knows the truth but you and I.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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