Michael DiSciullo - On the Cusp

She is a precious singularity,
Alone in a swirl of family, friends.
A modern ascetic.

Not spoiled; simply unprepared
to be what he believes she could be.

He says, 'Wily.'
She says, 'Weak.'

He misses her touch,
She misses a phantom.

He cries softly,
She cries foul.

At the end of her driveway
and the end of his rope.
He will burn this village in order to save it.

Michael DiSciullo

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-cusp/