Too much, too little, too late.
That's how it went;
Excessive, lazy, and hesitant
When the inevitable east wind
Engulfed us and tore us apart.
Loved too much,
Overbearing and Intense.
Protective is an understatement
Of how I strived to control.
Yet that I truly could not do,
But gave too little,
And expected it all
I would reap what I'd sown.
You cast me from my aureate throne,
The stone ground greeted me justly.
Shamefully late, far too so.
It was months before I stopped,
Gawking and gazing and obsessing.
Over the fact you were mine.
I blinked and and it was no longer true
So now I reflect on my errors and wrongs.
The devil in the mirror jeers, taunting.
I know I cannot be satisfied
So I do the only thing I know,
I end, as we had done but a week prior.
YOU ARE READING
Too Finished
PoetryA poem, kind of depressing, I just felt as if I had to write and this fell off my fingertips.
