Her hand resting with his
Rising as his chest
With every breath

Somber as his breathing
Labored as his rest
She did invest

Oh, how he had ventured
Battled for her hand
As some demand

Worn, but still returning
Victory of all
He’d never fall

Never ceasing to remain
Any needed cure
He would procure

Never ceasing to depart
Ever growing cost
Delaying loss

Sadly there is failure
Poison that will kill
And always will

The final cost of victory
The heart reliable
Not viable


About A. P. Christopher

I'm a cynic, a nihilist, and a pessimist. I'm a hermit filling the interior walls of my empty cavern with the words and pictures of a mind adrift in disparity. I also like lifting weights.
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