Harsh, her words were, as winter, battling against the breeze
of soothing spring, the second heart of mine, it awakens.
There is a man, a miserable pile of feelings,
thoughts, and longingness, battling between
these two hearts, when one has weakened,
to a state beyond repair, and that which is
tied by a false sense of responsibility.
"Come on," I say to thee. "Come one and all.
For we who have survived Ragnarok."
Bless femininity, and let capriciousness ebb
and flow. I, myself, will survive once again, not for
a future with her, or for any other similar notion, but a thought that
I, as a man, will be, for the sake of being.