Dying to herself, withered in toil she lay.
Arms so unkept from years of fruitless waving, one dared to quiver.
Not as if it mattered, what’s been done, has been done.
For years, she danced around in a world of her own.
Seeing the unseen, occasionally drifting to one…..
Always just for fun.
Love couldn’t live here to long.
As soon as it came, even quicker it had gone.
It had always been acceptable to be the lover, just not the loved.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *