Tragic, the thoughts of you,
as we each have tried and life did ensue
to be beaten to a pulp,
ideals lumped together like crumbs upon a table,
swept away, betrayed and cleared for life anew.
Once I thought I knew, what was within you,
your dreams and happiness founded in us,
but apparently all the fuss was about you alone,
prone to tangents of grasp without reason,
response without a season to proclaim.
I watched you waver, swing like the pendulum,
and not once did you be still, until
desperate for answers
you held questions so close you could not recognize,
the size, the very scope of your disconnection.
Too long has it been for you to change,
your mind convinced of the lies you wove into being,
not seeing the harm you procured for yourself,
and all around you, those who thought you loved,
shoved aside for petty, shallow gain: how insane.
You live now in shadows,
a light-less dim facade of care,
when truth is simply despair, loss and certainty,
that change is a closed door,
and you, little more than the pennies you so sought.
Tragic the thought of you,
blame and malicious in loss,
tossed to your own heap of failure,
invested in all of which is shallow,
life without value, is your chosen path.
And where love once lived is a tomb,
a memorial for all that love hoped,
yet dashed by all used to cope with self,
and I, sad for the lending,
of my soul for the spending,
when you betrayed yourself.
Tony DeLorger © 2017