Sometimes the first love is the one that hurts the most.
An old man looked at me from the mirror,
A sad, glazed look in his eyes,
He'd been there before,
Seen it all, done it all,
Rode the stormy weather,
Yet still, eluded by the prize.

His smile was thinned by melancholy,
As though stuck in a year gone by,
As he tried to reassure me,
A reminisce of a kiss,
A foolhardy folly,
A rose that withered and died!

She was the love of my life, we were soulmates,
At least in my own mind's eye,
I gave her everything,
My thoughts and my plots,
My illusions and dreamscapes,
And my wish that she should comply.

I thought that the prize was ours to keep,
Till she came up and spoke with a sigh,
She said, "I'm leaving today,
Though I love you, it's true,
It's another who makes me grow weak,
And I can no longer live in this lie!"

There were others of course, but ever since then,
No other has captured my light,
It's too deep in the darkness,
Of shadow and sorrow,
Clogged in a mire of penitence,
My spirit disabled of flight.

And I look once again at the man in the mirror,
At a face all wrinkled and lined,
Profound in the past,
Neglected, rejected,
Like the rose that once withered,
To leave her sweet fragrance behind.

As we whispered in unison, "What happened to us?
What has become of our lives?"
Through tear welled eyes,
He smiled again, the smile of a man,
Who refused to cuss,
The pain that loneliness implies.

I watched a tear crawl down his left cheek,
As one similar crawled down my right,
And I thought of the failures,
The mistakes, the fakes,
The trespasses, the misdeeds,
And all the old tears that I've cried.

When I turned from the mirror he was still there,
Forever and always by my side,
To help carry the burden,
Of a brokenhearted, spirit departed,
Soul laid out open and bare,
All hope demoralized!
Published: 12/19/2014
Bouquets and Brickbats