As my fickle pen sweeps across the chosen page,
Its unsteady stream of ink spouts scattered thoughts of thou…
Oh, that my grief were not so! If only my mind could wander
Without inevitably pausing upon thy fabricated tombstone!
But alas, for such luxury is not mine to own, that pleasant sense
Of rightness in the world so often dubbed peace of mind
For mine is not to be had, for how can there exist
Peace of mind without peace of heart? There ‘tis
I find the keeper of my despondency, my heart is at war!
Not warring another, mind, but with itself!
The ceaseless battle rages, with neither side being the victor,
Instead, my heart is torn apart…but who am I to complain?
For were my heart a whole, it would do an equal good
As that it does in two. What good is a flower
That has no stem to hold it upright? Instead of embracing
The sun, it floats aimlessly downstream ‘til
It disappears beneath the current, ne’er to be seen again.
This t’would be the fate of my heart were’t to remain whole.
Thus, by waging war upon my emotions I succeed
In preserving my sanity. For this, and this alone,
I thank thee. For without the pain dealt me by thine hand
I would still be drowning. Not drowning in sorrow,
As a part of me has already done, but drowning in illusion.
This illusion that I so easily fell victim to suffocated
All my senses, particularly that of reality, leaving no barrier
Between thy murderous rage and my vulnerability.
The knife thou plunged in my chest will forever be the divider
Between what was and what remains: The object
Of my devotion and destruction, one and the same,
Yet separate, for a part of me is remains willing to die
For love of thou, but still the other part is willing to die for none.
To die willingly by another’s hand is different than to die by thy own,
If only because thou diest knowing ‘twas another’s will.
Thus I inherently refuse to surrender my whole heart
To another’s cause, and so the battle rages on…