placed such a soft voice on my wounds
I thought it was my own pain that I felt
that wouldn't heal.
The tale seemed so familiar
I never thought it strange
the story-line did not resolve
except as I gave in.
Her webs went so unnoticed
I thought it was my fault
I hadn't brushed them all aside
before, my fuel consumed,
love came to blame’s rescue,
assumed responsibility
for what it couldn't know,
the echo of old auto-plays,
so victims once again could gloat
as if they have no souls.
It was only a ghost who appeared that day
—some memory of compassion—
how real I became in what I gave
to what dared not exist.
