I can't forgive her for stealing your poetry from us, <br />the ones you didn't live long enough to write. <br />Never mind that she stole your husband, your happiness <br />and peace of mind, which nobody is promised. <br />But she stole your last flourish, pen in hand, <br />Your wise or whimsical dying utterance. <br />She made your death seem soulless, abstract, mechanical. <br /> <br />You were too astute not to notice things, love has that way about it; <br />No doubt you knew him better, than he knew himself, <br />But that didn't make it easier. The bed you left her wasn't good <br />For easy sleeping. I wish I could say that I never stole anything. <br />She must have stood over your grave cursing self <br />Life, stupidity, youth, and in the end she was even unkind enough <br />To take her own child with her. Perhaps she thought it would suffer <br />The same pangs of friendlessness, being made outcast. <br /> <br />She chose the same way out, but did it with less class. <br />He would always survive and move on, perhaps less whole each time, <br />But still full of his intact sense of self, which his women did not seem to have. <br />You had everything and lost most of it, <br />While she had nothing left to lose, yet gave it all up freely. <br />I doubt you are friends now; the grave is a long and lonely sentence. <br />I hope the grass and flowers hide your wounds now. <br />I guess you know he wasn't worth it. No man who would counterfeit love is. <br />And the world was never fickle, where you were concerned.<br /><br />Patti Masterman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-world-was-never-fickle/
