Grasping the cold chains tightly,
Like they were amulets or chains of rosary,
Muttering the same sentence over and over,
Hoping the night would land mellower.
His lies were unbearably pleasing
To the ears; but to the heart, piercing.
His truths were immeasurably rare,
But not rarer than the nights he was home.
And she knew that the world knew,
They would laugh about why she'd kneel,
They'd mock, and wonder, and take pity,
Or so she imagined they would, sadly.
Copyright © thearcticstar 2016