He holds her hand as she struggles
--or perhaps she his, we are certainly
opening up these days--
They are prey to a pity-free foe
Whose fate is writ from the opening
From the first ideas of a plot
Pity the poor martyr who dies
Misunderstood; often
it was never his (or her) choice
I crave an unhappy ending
One that makes you look around
and think What the Fuck?
Why would they do that to him (or her)?
To me?
But I ramble idly and pointlessly,
My thoughts are too stray to make music
And I pride myself on at least
Strumming a chord
So to all
A good night
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