Why I hate to fight
Is not the hurt,
It is actually the aftermath
When she pulls herself under a shell
And struggles to trust me again.
I was a monster
Some unfortunate minutes ago,
It is so difficult to convince
That I am not the same man,
I was merely at my lowest hour.
So much was said
That was never meant,
But to relish the secret joy
Of upsetting that hour,
To pick at the hands of the clock,
To watch it struggle slowly,
Not knowing the hand of fate
To be so cruel;
It takes away time from our clocks.
A lot was said,
A lot was made
Of the Boogeyman Hour,
The intent was to hurt,
Only to repent
After a pondering hour.
The toughest thing in the world
Is to see her in the aftermath,
Dried and defeated in hope,
Like a child seeing through magic
For the first time,
And wondering if love
Was a farce they made
To walk through life,
And that nothing I say
Would ever matter.
Every touch of love
Then cowers in the corner,
And mourns the day
When two lovers met
To sell promises that
Would never be kept,
And yet
It would all turn out
To be fine in the end,
That time would pass
Like all the bad times,
And make way for better days,
Where more promises would be made
To keep that one unkept promise.
Watching life seep back into her slowly
Is the greatest gift I could ask,
It puts the faith where it belongs,
And reassures a child about magic.