He lassoed the moon with a rope made of hair,
twisted fibres of all those he’d lusted after.
He pulled with all the stored hate of a man spurned,
dragged the celestial orb closer, closer and closer still.
He smiled then the self-satisfied smirk of mischief
attributable to a child; wrong on a grown man, so wrong.
But his work was done, gravity altered, the tides changed.
For all those yet to love, yet to hope, yet to live,
he, the spiteful one, had altered the swells of each heart.
He died then, the strain of his awful work too much for one man.
Dissolved in a puddle of his own spite, he dripped away
as the universe realigned around him, heaven once again smiling.
For no amount of foolish spite could ever break the boundaries of love,
and still no woman mourned him.


8 thoughts on “Unmourned”

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