Fickle is the judgement W hen I talk of a person. Heckle I do, T o accede her association. In a trickle flows her flood Of vacillations that are venomous O'er the past that never peter A nd the present that power passions. Aided by a lovely freckle Sweetened by the gentle treacle , Pacted they a possible future O f kids, Kleenex and Crocin. Then, t o take apart her soul And lay bare her vulnerabilities Had he any right or reason? To heal her heart A nd dull the pain Does she hit out or hurt in? Nights pass the day A waiting in silence to torment her thoughts. Days pass the night To whisk her away from reliving events past. This raging memory ' slaught ...
A man's reach should exceed his grasp.