Life at the margins

He stares through the satin blackness,
Straining at each deceit playing with his eyes.
Minutes, or hours, perhaps, have passed
Since her departure forced this armistice.
Such warcraft in brokering uneasy peace,
So many hours lost to rack and ruin
For such an innocent little lie.
They are fated to live at the margins of sanity,
Forever tearing at the hearts which bind them,
Hate wearing the seductive cloak of lust
And professing itself the very yardstick of love.
The silence is unbearable;
Alone in the darkness he cannot reason,
Reality warped in cruel mockery
Without her rage to bring focus,
Clarity and a moment’s loving rest.
She will come, she must come,
And in the fire that consumes them,
His heart will beat again.