Misplaced Trust Poem by April DOWN

The ghost of myself
Is housed in this man
I follow with fanatical loyalty
Imbedded with hope so I ran

Ran into his arms, ran into his heart
And I just kept running

But the promises are spoilt
Like fruit moulding and white
My status below the foundations
Where a body would be buried

Insanity consoles me
And I linger on the next promise
Wide eyed, teeming with trust
But partly awaiting the next bust

I cry. A basic devotion
But the tears soon try
And the next place to run
Is into the middle of no mans land