The World Was Never Fickle Poem by Patti Masterman

I can't forgive her for stealing your poetry from us,
the ones you didn't live long enough to write.
Never mind that she stole your husband, your happiness
and peace of mind, which nobody is promised.
But she stole your last flourish, pen in hand,
Your wise or whimsical dying utterance.
She made your death seem soulless, abstract, mechanical.

You were too astute not to notice things, love has that way about it;
No doubt you knew him better, than he knew himself,
But that didn't make it easier. The bed you left her wasn't good
For easy sleeping. I wish I could say that I never stole anything.
She must have stood over your grave cursing self
Life, stupidity, youth, and in the end she was even unkind enough
To take her own child with her. Perhaps she thought it would suffer
The same pangs of friendlessness, being made outcast.

She chose the same way out, but did it with less class.
He would always survive and move on, perhaps less whole each time,
But still full of his intact sense of self, which his women did not seem to have.
You had everything and lost most of it,
While she had nothing left to lose, yet gave it all up freely.
I doubt you are friends now; the grave is a long and lonely sentence.
I hope the grass and flowers hide your wounds now.
I guess you know he wasn't worth it. No man who would counterfeit love is.
And the world was never fickle, where you were concerned.