SingersFit

In her, he met his match,
his divine counterpart.
The one with whom he’d finally open his heart
and know true love.
He recognised her,
the one made exactly for him,
to his likeness,
his anima.

He wanted her,
and yet, not only did he betray her,
but he also sought to destroy her,
crush her purity, kill her spark.
He could not accept that love is the most high.
He needed to control love,
because he fears it.
Not God, not the universe,
but him and his broken soul,
the only one to decide who he ‘loves’.

So he tergiversated the sacred meaning of love
to suit his own controlled reality,
a shield to protect his fragility,
crafting it upon newly found empty vessels
who happened to be there.

He sought in lesser women
the qualities of her,
he tried to mould inferior women
into the image of her,
attributing her talents, heart, ways and essence
to vacuum, cracked souls
who would bend themselves to be wanted by the god-like mask of him.

He chose blank canvasses that he could mould
and called them his own creation, possesion,
and labelled it love.

She went out of her usual ways
to make him see.
But he would not, did not,
for the life of him,
want to see.
Instead,
he inflicted further damage.
So she stepped back and let him be.

She wanders this world adrift,
with a pain greater than the greatest loss,
because she knows.
Yet,
this is a pain that gives her peace,
for it is the truth.
In that knowing, she has unearthed herself,
she sees
the blinding light she holds,
the infinite love she bears.

She sees him deeper than he sees himself.
He chooses not to see her,
because seeing her means seeing himself.
So he runs,
and that is fine.

She mourns him,
she mourns herself,
she mourns what they had,
and what they never had.
Still,
she respects his path,
wishes nothing but love for him,
and worships the ground on where he walks.

She’s the widow of a living man.