And she said,
Bubba,
you look so good in all black.
but she could not tell
I was in mourning.
My pretty smile
hides the truth.
I sometimes wonder,
why this world
can not give
this sucker
just one
even
break.
Besides
this
break
of
heart.
So she called me again,
and I never dreamed she would,
with no calls from my way.
Can she not see
the battle scares
and the resign
and the defeat
and loss of belief
in love true.
Is there still something seen,
in what is left of old,
worn, torn, empty, shell me,
that could generate an interest.
Vultures pick at barren bones
bleached by sun
dried by the winds,
but I have less
to offer,
this valueless null set,
I feel to be.
Lash my back with leather,
bleed me of what
is left,
left behind in heap
of disarray,
then search for
redemption unclaimed.
I think not.
