Perhaps she isn't capable of true love.
No doubt in my mind that self-doubt prohibits anything true.
Worthless and empty, a field of white with no light at the edge.
How can anyone embrace her when her arms
don't reach around her back? Dreams an illusion of desire not meant for her.
Mirrors shattered in
tiny pieces,
fragments so small that nothing reflects
except the empty sky.
Is it any wonder that the one
who proclaimed his true love
is filled with stress after so many years of
doubting her faith?
Because of him she remains the cactus. Filled with spiny pins,
resisting drought,
flowering only when the mood strikes her.
Her life the desert where few roam
and very little life exists.
Dreams of the past haunt her nights
under the starless sky,
flames rising to nothingness.
Her world a mess. Blank.
No room for prose of any color.
Why must she win
when it means little to her?
Yet she understands that
some rewards come to
those deserved;
but love comes to no one,
yet another delusion for the weak.
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