He just can’ t get past
the shallow end of the gene pool –
his thoughts are skipping stones,
bouncing off a surface as smooth as glass.
Any conclusions which need to be drawn
are best left to the artists;
he is too occupied
in swallowing his own press
to go off the deep end.
He never saw her value,
the way the sun drew out
the gold in her hair and her heart,
until it was too late.
Solid,
comforting,
mining worth from the
crumbs he tossed at her feet,
she died to him slowly;
over years of neglect,
the arteries seeking sap
withered and found new source.
He reaches,
but grasps air –
she is falling,
falling,
ore he can no longer touch,
gem he can no longer claim
as his own.
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 