In so many aspects,
in all manners that ought to be well,
you were like a needle cast in silver,
only blunt. Unkeen. Poised for piercing.
Except you were blunt,
and therefore cruel in your intentions.
So easily you batter the coffrets
that house a treacherous heart
drunk on lost hopes and lost faith.
And because you were blunt,
the thick muscled walls cannot give parting,
in spite of your ministrations.
So they bruise.
Patterned like the stars that mark
the darkest nights; a tapestry of celestial tears.
And because you were blunt,
there is no pity in your cruelty,
no gentleness in your touch.
Can one blame the heart then, or blame you?
A conundrum that brooks incomplete reproach
save an unholy truth: you were blunt.
And therefore the most memorable, the most unfleeting.
