They need me up until I’m muted
Chances are I’ve done something that couldn’t be disputed
But when it comes to compassion it’s poorly executed
And when I try my hand at warmth it comes across polluted
I’m pulling and I’m pulling for his wings to be uprooted
There once was a time his heart could be recruited
But cheap romance and chugs of lies was a game he felt more suited
In truth he won and always will his wit can be saluted
© Delia Ross. 2020
I write most of these poems “for him” but I wonder if my words will be read in 200 years? Will they like me more after I’m dead?
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