On The Cusp - Poem by Michael DiSciullo
She is a precious singularity,
Alone in a swirl of family, friends.
A modern ascetic.
Not spoiled; simply unprepared
to be what he believes she could be.
He says, 'Wily.'
She says, 'Weak.'
He misses her touch,
She misses a phantom.
He cries softly,
She cries foul.
At the end of her driveway
and the end of his rope.
He will burn this village in order to save it.
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