The Woman

The man who sings the songs to her

Has gone to bed

‘Until tomorrow’

He says

 

The woman, who can only listen

Is left alone

She takes a tablet

And rests

 

The self-obsessed opportunist

Messages

But it’s clearly all

About them

 

The woman has her troubles and

Sympathises

But can only do

So much

 

Whilst last year’s almost-lover

Has new love

He pays no mind

To her

 

The woman, who still cares for him

Forgives him

She could never be

Good enough

 

The girl who’s on a journey

Has a life

Both beautiful

And strange

 

The woman, who goes nowhere now

Envies her

The freedom she has

To change

 

The writer of the beautiful tales

Is unwell

It makes him angry

Darkest rage

 

The woman lives with illness too

And wishes

She could free him

From his pain

 

And the man who is best avoided

Is muted

But still messages

Sometimes

 

The woman  fears him now

Worries

That he’ll come back

Once more

 

The sweetest man is over there

She likes him

But only likes

That’s all

 

The woman, who gets lonely

Is happy

That he’s around

Sometimes

 

The poets and photographers

Musicians and muses

Artists and scribes

Fill her day

 

The woman, who feels everything

Cares for them all

In her own

Hopeless way

 

 

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