God – I’m sorry,
For letting you put your trust in me,
When it should have ended in the arms of another soul.
What can I do,
But waste the Present you’ve bestowed,
Until it’s too late,
Slipped Past my grasp, dulled
From grasping at mirror-shards,
Falling around where I’m never gonna be.
I should have stopped your hope,
Which found a roost in my pock-marked soul,
Broken like a cosmic shooting range target,
Re-used and tattered,
But the Others’ light shining bright through my instances of emptiness,
Distracting your better senses from re-aligning your focus.
Please trust me when I tell you,
That you will find a better champion than me,
In the lack thereof.