Ice eyes spit, spark, glitter and glisten,
yet, you see nothing, nor do you listen.
Words choke, on the tip of your torched breath,
and will remain, unspoken, long after your death.
Blond curls fall over your fierce, handsome face,
in old age, there's still the structure, a strong trace,
of the fiery god, you once thought you were,
in spite of the burden you carried for her.
She sneered and snarled into that handsome face,
cursed you for making her barren life, a waste;
said she deserved to be worshipped, deserved better,
than a pitance pay cheque delivered of the postman, by letter.
Years, wars, harm, hurts, came, as they will,
while, her rage and hatred hid neath the guise of one ill.
The toll of resentment ever deepened with time,
she did die, before fruit, would ripen, on the orphaned vine.
Tushie 25/11/12
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