Under Construction

I've come to the conclusion that my broken doesn't love as well as my whole did. I love in pieces now, without having to give myself up completely. At any rate, I only have pieces of myself to give and I am reluctant to give them away freely. I envy those that can. Those who are able to rebuild quickly and begin again without building up an extra wall of protection or putting up more guards. So this is where I stand. Scared. Confused. Reluctant.

Under Construction

There is a sign he cannot read
Though it was fashioned to be seen from a distance
to ward off those who might dare fight through the resistance

But now, for the brave and the few
to get into view of this sign, which is heavily guarded
He must trek through a forest
lush with attraction and cut through the tension
that feeds on flirtation growing like moss over friendship

Parched and thirsty
he will wander a desert of loss
Where mirages of hope hover just beyond reach
and few will ever get through it
He might see some still lost and confused
staring and yearning for reciprocation

Should he find a way out
he shall be greeted with blue
from an ocean of tears
that I've cried for years
for those that have since departed

At the end of that set, he might be met
by the frozen chill of cold shouldered rejection
or razor winds that tear at skin
pushing back, beating down his persistence

Beyond that still are grasslands and hills
where bulls are left to roam freely
So watch out for the feces
they are potent and destructive
laid out with mines full of excuses

At last he will come to a post that reads
"come not too close"
and from here,
past the guards, heavily armed
and the snipers on walls,
There is a sign fashioned to be seen from a distance
to ward off those who might dare approach
a woman scared of his existence