by Nick Gisburne
A ghost, a nightmare, always near, she is.
Reminders of forgotten fear, she is.
The pain of every tortured nerve, she is.
Whatever damage you deserve, she is.
A broken promise, never whole, she is.
When love is not inside your soul, she is.
Suspicion, scratching at your sight, she is.
The wickedness you failed to fight, she is.
The anguish of a crippled heart, she is.
A chain your weakness pulled apart, she is.
The woman only you could hurt, she is.
Abandoned in the dust, the dirt, she is.
They speak of her in whispers: “She was his.”
And in your dreams, your misery, she is.
