Would I, if known,
those shadows of a love so prone
could I remove the love and relent on pity,
that now I see so petty,
a soul I thought I knew,
reduced to less than I could have ever have assumed
in hatred, let alone love?
I saw not the signs,
of a mind lost to some malaise,
some wretched twist of soul,
that disarmed my life, my love, whole,
till I could see none other than ill;
was I so blind all long, to not see this potential,
a shift in reality so stark and venomous,
I would be lost as inconsequential.
Perhaps there were no signs, and I forgiven
for not seeing it come,
like a train speeding to its doom,
but no, the signs came when it was too late,
and now cast aside, I can but berate myself
for such time lost,
like a present bestowed, but at what cost?
Blame I have become,
for life and every failure she possesses,
and vile tongues have joined the throng
of those hypocrites as she,
who better place themselves in ridiculing others,
blame their sharpest sword,
to cut and bleed anyone upon their knees.
Inconsequential my being,
for I am just a target, nothing more,
the brunt of all in life displaced,
for some cannot accept responsibility
for their own game,
and so I stand strong, unperturbed,
for all that’s thrown at me in words.
Tony DeLorger © 2017