Not once did she blame you,
now she is not so sure.
What once was apparent,
has turned slightly pale.
The blood circulating has turned,
is it even there?
It’s an organ, but nothing remains.
Nights where laughter would echo,
the sun has set long ago.
Reality sets in with each glare,
she tries not to sit and stare.
What’s in her so deep,
leaves her resting here feeling cheap.
Sipping wine, smoking, and ashing,
a homemade ashtray and music blares.
She sits content but only prolongs,
what is truly there.
With each passing moment,
with each brain cell.
She only blames herself.
Copyright Kerrious 2014 with all rights reserved.
(written in 2009)