He had
her –
not friend
but a mistress.
And she was
his –
to hold
but not to keep,
for he –
for her
love had
never felt.
And she was
his –
to toy
and toss away
when the
morning twitters came,
to lock her
in the deepest pit
until the
yearn came back at night,
until he
needed flesh to feed his life.
And she
was his –
nothing but
a doll -
her heart
was torn apart
and her
eyes were black with night,
her bones
were aching lonely,
her blood
– frozen clogs amid her brain.
And she
was his,
but hers
– no more…
And she
was hurt
but couldn’t
walk away.
And she
was his
until the
fire took her in
and Death
freed her away.
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