I see the ghouls in his soul,
The bits of man-made hurt
that emassed into defiant haunting ghosts.
No, he didn’t become like that in a day;
It started with one touch…
just one light brush,
almost un-feeling–
a promise made, a promise failed.
A piece of him gave.
But that was not all–
just the beginning of the end.
For it happened again,
and again,
and again.
They promised, they swore,
they bet ‘pon graves,
and yet again, they failed.
So that was how it was,
that they broke his soul to crumbs.
No one ever kept their word,
until he could give no more.
And now, I see him clearly…
through his brimming eyes that
host shards of ache and malady.
He was not always like this.
His demons are man-made.


© The Short Black Girl, 2015.


4 thoughts on “Man-Made.

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