Ornate little box

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
a piece i wrote about love, or perceived love.The destruction of this false beauty and then finding solace within ones self.

Submitted: January 08, 2012

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Submitted: January 08, 2012



The paradise they had built together was an ornate little box, and a pleasure to look at. But as it turns out sleep would not come easy. He had thought it would, when he found the one. She was the apple of his eye, and he possessed with such masculine grace and innocent charm how could she possibly resist.

Like so many, feigning men and believing women. She the healer, he the victim. And so she martyred herself to his cause, dreamt his dreams. He had just not found it yet. She knew he would, her faith in him would not be contested by dark memories long past. 

The moon was full, and he sat in its still light resting white hands on white keys. Making no sound for to hear his own breathing. His phone stirred incessantly on the floor. He would not answer, for what was there to say? He was weak, hip to the solution yet apathetic to its outcome. He had reinvented the lie, for a time. A lie of brilliant design, so complex he himself believed it.

She was sick, and she hugged her pillow and sobbed till she wretched, nothing came but spit and then blood from a stripped throat. He would not answer, he would come again, eventually. But it would not be him, not the one she had created. And so she sought comfort in the only way she could. Ego had brought her back once before, and now in this new light the invitation of her armor, forged long ago then shelved for her masterpiece, was all too inviting.

For the box had opened, now the elements cracked the paint, and the colours grayed, the expression dimmed. Inwardly her masterpiece turned. Away from her unceasing brush strokes and unto itself. For he was created not by her, but only made more palatable. And the tool of her form was BROKEN.The genius existed in the chaos, and promise such as this is not subject to expectation.

© Copyright 2018 Jack Lazarus. All rights reserved.

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