She is unblemished,
As they say…


But blemished she is:
Blemished is her mind,


						Her
								inner
										eye.


His snaky kingdom, an intruder to her peaceful bliss,
Mourns the mere chance it did not take
To be a globalist movement under her blithe skin.


His every will, willing to appease,
His every word, sweet nectar to mine ear.


And inner ease be his tremulous desire,
That which she brings not into his life,
But smothers with her accusations so.


She is not what I am,                                      divine perfection of a woman.


This, misconceived, is not what I am but what she is.




As she hurts him so,
she sees it not,


For her selfishness overpowers her being..  		Draws Confidence
For her selfishness eats her whole.
He sees not that she hurts him so,
Still ignorant pertaining to detecting evil.
But the lights, they falter,
And eyes strain to adjust.


And his cheek bones, defined by sorrow,
Are jagged
Not unlike my


heart.






He knows not what damage she has done,


For broken
			he is
					and the fault accredited to her.


For her grubby fingernails have defaced my poor, sweet angel..


Dare I call him so
His innocence she robbed, if he ever was innocent at all.


I know not what damage he has done,


For broken
			I am
					and the fault accredited to him.


But repress I my sorrow, endeavoring to cushion him.
Attempting to heal his feeble heartbeat.


May I save him if I sweep aside the wool
Shorn
Off
His
Back?

By: Tenaya Berndsen