IdolatryShe is, of course, not at all what I made her.
Convenient and needy, she served very well
As the tangible symbol of an endless ache
To achieve, I don't know, a sense of worth,
A feeling that I actually mattered to
Someone? I did to her. I loved how that
Felt, but the woman herself was shallow
And selfish. She grew tired of being a symbol
For me. She long since has stopped stepping
Into that role, but the ache has remained.
It's the source of my sorrow. I see her as if
She's at once in two lights. The sun's shows
A woman, unmissed, who's not much.
The moon, with its silver, reshapes her
Into who I made.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 44 times
Written on 2017-04-02 at 16:47
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