The Death of Me

I am a dead man,
My emotions,
a placebo for her.

Why do I weep?
when I should hate?
I should have born stronger,
bred by stronger kin,
fed on stronger ration,
met by stronger beings.

Why do I care?
For am I too weak?
Why do I bide for fictive summons?
Aren't there other hearts to pursue and murder,
than a gentle demise of my own spleen?

I covet a surrogate existence,
where I were selfish and unexceptional - "I,
feel ignorant and incomplete,
But should I be single?" - an obtuse question.

I would have a choice though,
which I know not of, NOW.




Her Punishment: She sees a dead man; hollow outside, crisp inside.