She Gifts Him Karma
And then turns and walks away
He battles daily in his war games,
Shooting stress balls determined to win the fight,
Emotions are high, the pain of cannon fodder,
His confining armour strangling him, suffocatingly tight.
***
His head bows at his brutal memories,
Rifle shots of heartache boom through the air,
Bullets of forgetfulness miss him on every fire,
If only, he’d ditch his memories, no longer wanting to be aware.
***
His long distance call for help a travesty,
Too bad he’d burnt that loving bridge,
Walked away in pride, deliberately trying to destroy,
Now wishing he could take it back, removing that scarred ridge.
***
Love is not something you can destroy,
Throw away and gift to a thundering storm,
Then change of mind has him digging for treasure,
His shame, his regrets, pretending he can transform.
***
The hand-grenade he held to her throat,
Laughing at the terror, the fear he placed in her eyes,
Pretending to be her guardian Angel,
As he removed the bomb, throwing it to be desensitised.
***
Now he struggles with his demons,
Needing her love to cast them back inside,
Oh dear, the bridge is flaming hot, destroyed,
And she’s on the other side.
***
She calls out clearly, for his sensitive ears that are begging,
“Goodbye dear destruction, the cyclonic force,
I gave you all of me and you trashed it, broke it, made me bleed,
So now I leave you for Karma, allowing her to take the appropriate course.”
***
With the echo of her words reverberating down his spine,
She gives a heart wrenching smile, her eyes gently saying ‘so long’,
As she slowly turns her back on him, walking away,
Leaving him to his destiny, his causation, his lesson in which he belongs.
If you liked my writing, please click on the small heart underneath, near my name. Or send me a tip and let me know you enjoyed it.
****
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
If you enjoy this piece, you may enjoy this one too.
Originally posted on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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Comments (2)
Can't say he didn't deserve it. Great piece.
The MF deserved it! No point crying over bridges that he burned. And he burnt it while I was still on it! Loved this poem so much my friend!