SHE was a red-haired Irish girl,
who wanted to converse with me;
I didn't understand, but then,
men never do.
WE followed the conversation to
a wedding and some pregnancies;
but she was left unhappy, and --
then, just left.
I WAS the situation from
which, she needed to escape:
I was emancipation, when
she moved on from me, for evermore --
SHE read the signs, and saw her place,
a better place, and in the sun;
she just needed a hell to escape, and
I was the one
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Tagged: Tags Autobiography Poetry
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
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