Miss Blay Wattle

She sat there, the wind coaxing tears that lay untouched on the ground, 

I could merely caress her veins—

Nowhere close to healing the wound that lay earthbound, 

Tracing their outline, I felt more yellowed droplets sweep by, 

Skin blay and dark in colour, almost that of the night,

Dripping with pollution, as it bled into the sky, 

Peeling—perhaps reflecting her inner hurt, 

Ornaments of wrappers scattered around,

Bringing out what was left of the vert—

That of her eyes, 

My heart sank in my chest, 

The chilled breeze swept back and forth,

As I heaved myself upward I felt it heavier within my breast, 

The air suffocated me—I bestowed a wheeze, 

Returning to the spot she once inhabited,

I saw nothing but lone wrappers and let out a wail,

The betrayal felt as though it spread, snatched her away,

The only one I had ever loved, used for their own avail,

In the end, we were just the pawns, the ants, the prey.