It's Like Chasing Lightening Bugs

I know that falling in love was beautiful.

What I didn't know was how falling out of love felt and how ugly it could be.

I'm sorry I said those words to you about loving each as we once did.

I know it's all too late now.

And that's all behind us.

Somewhere buried under all the rubble of our war.

I guess they say, one can love too much and I heard them say, one could never love enough.

Well, not enough to sustain another living soul anyway.

It's like chasing lightening bugs at night, to only hold them against their will, this alone is torture.

And yet you allow them the ability to still see through the glass jar.

Or the sound of the hunter's rifle blast.

The bullet tearing through the branches of the trees, bringing the buck crippling to it's knees.

The unspoken agony it all brings.

And the buck now laying on the forest floor; wondering as he bleeds out where the shot even came from.

He thinks all these years he has been so guarded, such a survivor, only to die here in shame.

He had become someone's game.

Or the farmer watching the little lamb run wildly in circles and then round and round again, with a gleem in his eye.

His knives freshly sharpened, shining under the sun's hot glare, become warm to the touch.

He licks his windburnt lips, waits for the precise moment to pounce.

He twists the rope in his hands so tightly they are raw and begin to bleed.

The sweat beads at his neck, arm pits, forehead.

His stomach growls loudly making him appear almost human.

Or the cat sitting eagerly for over an hour now, cramped up anticipating the dash of the tiny brown mouse.

He becomes so easily distracted by the bowl of milk it's owner placed for him on the kitchen floor.

The sense of gratitude this little brown mouse feels will never be recognized at all by the cat's owner.

The little brown mouse seizes the opportunity and makes a mad dash across the hard wood floors.

The cat turns his head slightly, seemingly almost amused by the mouse's speed, continues to drink it's milk with out skippong a beat.

The thrill of the hunt.

Just to create the big divide.

Divide and conquer.

Corners prepared; buckets, water, towels; check.

The timer goes off, the ting of the bell.

They rush each other only in hunger and hate.

No compromise; it's either you or me.

Last man standing.

The elimination round.

The process of elimination.

Come out swinging kid.

Til death do us part.

Story of my life.

Doing it by myself, for myself; it's always just been me.

Maybe that's why I hold on so tight gripping the rope with all my might.

It could be maybe why I perch too long, anticipating, waiting.

People tend to linger, over stay their welcome.

Knowing when they should go yet running from it's time.

Change, I think causes much too much fear in the eye of the beholder.

The mirror reflects back to you an image of a man who is only getting older.