The defeated man

 

There stands the defeated man,

Lines of worry etched on his face,

Blizzards pelting the petals

of the flower of his fate,

The sun setting in the eyes,

The light fading out

and the night settling

as dark circles under the eyes,

Almost ground into dust by destiny,

Tension unspooling in his gut,

The ravenous flames of nightmares

chasing him even during the sunlit day.

 

In the pit of dark,  

all he needed was her sympathy,

but never pity,

And this still surviving

streak of confidence and self-worth

seemed arrogance to her,

It opened a chasm between them,

which won’t be closed by

pity or angry words

or even attempts at fake lovemaking.