It's a pity dear that I can't ever believe
the love that drops from your misty
gaze has ever really been sincere for me,
aloof I walk the sands of armored beach,
with thoughts that segue from leery
trappings of a betrayed spirit
to isolated heart roaring ravenous screams.
Unfortunate am I that the scars I carry
burned through the skin,
now sitting inside the cage of my ribs,
feel tomb-like heavy,
sinking, eventually, all arks of fancy
you lovingly crafted to find the Atlantis,
now long dead, of my trustful being.
My Island of loneliness
that you set out to inhabit,
through oceans of faith, sailing
under a weather of pleasant beliefs
making vehement spiels
that you held power of my metamorphosis,
turned out to be a glacier hiding
your agonizing ruin beneath.
So now you're drowning
in tears that are bleeding
unseen by eyes of empathy,
as I stand on the shore watching skeptically,
watching you sink and waiting
for substantiation, for testimonies,
that yes, you really do feel
the way you say you do about me.