This poem was inspired by a conversation with a friend about a person who in our lives turned out to be quite a different person than we had originally thought them to be. So here is the random documentation of the poem that resulted.
Plagued
She's left here denying an ache left by one
who never brought her anything more than meltaways.
Thinking to herself that his presence again
at any time would be far too soon.
However, having to admit that thought arises
way too much for someone so deserving of oblivion.
She's nothing more than a weather broadcast
from last year to him.
Not even as lasting as a gas pump receipt.
Yet she sits here with the heavy heart of a woman
who thought she'd killed that muse.
One that lays dormant inside, hibernating.
Not even a muse of great worth, but one that clings
to her like the smoke of a house fire.
If only she could suffocate it.
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