make me complete, make me whole.
Tautological lines
the contrivance of rhymes
mused along by the thing that I've seen through the blinds.
Like a woman desperately clinging to a man
who trusts her with nothing but fists,
my feeble attempts to resist are half-hearted
my lopsided love only persists.
Even when the damage is deeper;
I'm entranced. No way I could leave her.
She pushed the wheels askew,
stole my mother from my view.
Somehow I already knew it was what she was going to do.
Successive acts of increasing volatility.
More surprising.
Though I've always known her nature
as all men do
I don't know it. Can't hone it.
Sometimes her scent is fresh,
full of life's breath.
Other times old,
like a junior college library;
ever-grateful for her presence,
even when I am not;
consistent in her hypocrisy,
like an interesting character of fiction
diction often precise,
other times a slurry, she is never in a hurry.
There is grace in her destruction
like a spider eating her mate
she cares for her young,
she watches and waits.
I wonder of all who have loved her
many throughout forever
Aztecs removing hearts,
commuters in a daze on BART,
spirits floating through the ether,
before and after history.
Within it as well.
As watches tick, we notice, she doesn't.
As to whether or not she knows a master
we answer “perhaps”;
we write poems about her,
she never reacts.
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