Yet she, hearty and hale.
Betrayed by love,
This little white dove,
A display of gut,
She, always the tough nut.
Touched upon the shores of hell,
Depths unknown by the deepest well.
Yet she stood firm and straight,
Owned her mistakes without blaming fate.
Love and hate, all blind confusion,
Nothing she did would relieve the tension.
The hurt she had borne,
Apart she was torn.
Yet not a word of blame,
After all, this was no game.
Not a stain on the canvas of posterity,
For today, she saw life with clarity.
She took it all in her stride.
For no one cared if she wept or cried.
Or so she thought.
But again, such was the case not.
A road had been built,
Rising above the dirt and the filth.
The path had been laid,
Attention to it, I wish she had paid.
And to this very riddle,
Her fate shall play second fiddle.
(Dedicated to KJ)
No comments:
Post a Comment