I was his home, his refuge,
Or so I believed,
Blinded to a moment, when I became,
A dig for his cavalcading vices,
A nest, harbouring his ego,
A harrowing realm, for his anger,
A distressed abode for his unabashed lust,
And when, out of arrogance and pride,
He deemed me his irrefuted property.
…
And I burnt, silent and cold,
Like a wee little matchstick,
In an odd corner, of my existence,
Igniting, if only momentarily.
The vices are now frailing,
And my light is still strong,
What are the odds?
An old wooden house,
And a careless, flaring match..
