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Oct 2016
Before this story, to you, I tell.
I would ask that you listen well.
Mine is a tale that can surely stand,
from very beginning to very end.

My lover was pure, saintly, and true,
almost as if she could be seen through.
Dressed in holy whites, she glided,
and my wayward heart, she guided.

I had little to my status or name,
little of fame to entice her aim.
Yet, still she slithered by my side,
till no longer could it be denied.

I was hers and hers alone to take,
and so I went along for her sake.
Such a fate did not bother me,
for her love made us become we.

Before her, I felt like a scuttling ant,
something small, weak, and scant.
Through her, my heart made worn,
became something else: loveborn.

And so it went from day to night,
a union of souls beaming sweet light.
We lived, we laughed, we loved.
Our ardor was blessed from the sky above.

I, speaking for myself, was fit with glee,
and my mirth could fill the deepest sea.
But, in her, I began to notice doubt,
as if something in her was in a drought.

Her cheeks did not span like before,
her eyes did not gleam like the shore.
Her essence did not shine the sky,
her heart did not beam on high.

I then began to wonder and doubt,
what had caused her this bout.
Was I to blame for her behavior,
had I created my fallen savior?

I knew that I was weak: pathetic,
something to be mocked: genetic.
Was our love doomed: prophetic?
I thought and I thought: splenetic.

If I was so miserable after all,
I would give her cause to squall.
Let us cease the senseless play,
and close the curtain on today.

I met her gaze in our room,
the scene was set for her doom.
I smiled. Then the deed was done.
She was from this world gone.

And in that moment, I stopped.
Looking at her, my head dropped.
In that moment, I had to kneel,
noting she had never been more real.
Written by
Christopher Ross Howie  North Carolina
(North Carolina)   
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