by Nick Gisburne
You’re not my lover, never really were,
Oblivious to everything I am.
With each new insult, taunt, or spiteful slur,
You raise the selfish levels of your sham.
Another brick, the last. The walls are built,
A tower of contempt, for all to see.
Constructed with derision, without guilt,
The soul on which it stands belongs to me.
The weight of it would crush me if it could,
The burden of your scorn in every stone,
But finally my fears are understood,
Ashamed to be abandoned, left alone.
Your tower crumbles, crashing into dust,
A ruin I’ll remember with disgust.
