Without the hope of love / Self-destruct

Without the hope of love around

she felt herself bound

to self-destruct 

one more time.

And she could feel it happening, and she could 

sense it encroaching.

And the man she’d fallen so in love with

had simply dismissed her as

empty box of

bombones, once 

fine; but now

cracked and stale 

and leaking sticky stuff.

And so nothing now was quite enough for her

to not

want to terribly 


that awful button on


“Without love, without even simply its hope, 

we are nothing; 

there is nothing; 

there is really no road.”

And from the splendour and wonder 

of that recent learning right fine,

the loveless man who’d won her heart

on that glorious Bloomsday

had just succeeded where others had failed: 

he’d finally ripped and torn her apart.

And from this, 

by now five times experienced moment,

she would never 


manage to return.

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