In shadows deep, where secrets dwell,
She wields his past, a sharpened blade,
A cruel shield in love’s facade,
Where trust should bloom, distrust is laid.
Behind her eyes, a war is waged,
With every word, she strikes anew,
“Love,” she cries, but love’s pure light
Is dimmed in shades of somber hue.
His heart, a battleground of yore,
Each scar exposed, each weakness shown,
She dances in the ruins of his peace,
Where seeds of trust have never grown.
He pleads for mercy, for respite,
But echoes meet his desperate call,
For in her grip, his past is chained,
A specter rising, proud and tall.
With every question, doubt, or plea,
Her answer cuts through air so still,
“Love,” she claims, but love is kind,
Not forged to break or bend the will.
In anger’s grip, he’s lost, adrift,
The tempest roars, no harbor near,
His voice, a whisper ‘gainst the storm,
Her weapon, his past, his deepest fear.
Yet love, true love, is not a sword,
Nor shield to wield in cruel jest,
It’s trust, it’s warmth, a gentle hand,
A haven for the weary beast.
He knows this truth, yet stands alone,
Against the tide of her deceit,
His soul a canvas, torn and frayed,
Where love and loss in sorrow meet.
So let this tale be etched in time,
A warning to the hearts that bleed,
That love should heal, not harm or bind,
And trust is love’s most precious seed.
R.M Anderson 2023
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