Virgin; it was given on a platter
pulsing with hope, nothing else did matter
save the reply one sought to hear.
Maybe held promise – yes was best,
and no never flirted with the thoughts,
but it came wrapped in a blatancy that hurt
and stripped the heart of its true colour.
Picked from whence ’twas flung,
it was offered again though refusal stung.
This time, its coat wore a new colour;
the blue of the sea and bright skies
but the eyes were closed to the sight.
Masked with calculated ignorance,
always the refrain of the dreaded no.
Never a maybe – never a yes.
Months slip into years and near-eternity
for a life spent harvesting hopes in vain
reality slides in with the final slashes,
that puncture the balloon of dreams
and life becomes a canvas of grey splashes.
I love, I hurt so I try to forget.
Time zooms past as it’s wont to do
and blunts the pain still not forgotten.
The one named Kismet brings her to me,
yearning for my heart of thorns.
Tightly she clutches and bleeds.
Drops of blood for each knot untied
to reveal the battered mass I did become.
With hope, she threads and patches,
and paints in the colours I used to know
onto the grey canvas of my life.
I hurt, she loves and I remember.