Cassanova and Delilah

Cassanova sits on the stairs
Shirt bloodied and torn.
Blame spews out of him
like the flames of hell.

Delilah quakes in the corner,
twirling the ring on her finger,
hot blood drips down her chin
and runs cold through her heart.

He maniacally broke through
the heavy door,
carelessly tossing aside dreams
and long-lost hopes,
drenched in despair.

She cowered in awe
of what had become
the norm of her so-called life;
duck and cover,
the flames licked so close.

She once seemed beautiful,
though awkward and loud.
He onced seemed polite,
though calloused and shy.
Rage spins loosely...

Empty halls echo with
laughter once known,
now forgotten...
lost in crowds of nothing.
The black nothing that swallows
light and life.

Cassanova sits,
Delilah bleeds.

And the prevalent "they" watched
and turned their heads
from the shame
and joined in the blame.