This Place of Near-Incessant Mourning

I do not understand

Why he sabotaged me so consummately,

And made me look like 

Such a pathetic old patsy,


Could he not discern the misery

He was shoring up by degrees,

Over the course of the years

For the self he would ultimately be?


It was perforce a former version of me,

Who led me to this place

Of near-incessant mourning,

A narcissistic anomaly,


Who never wanted the precious gifts

Of peace and domesticity,

The little ones that might have been,

He spirited them all away from me.

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