the shackles on my wrists

ambivalent to the core

a girl, you made me.
i run closer with alacrity
only to find hindrance and,
left i lay beleaguered.

all this does,
it begets misery.
but never are you
to this besotted soul,
a bete noire.

for no airy promises made.
to stop you,
this slips from my grasp.
i can only ponder
with not a right to question
the lilt in your voice that lingers.

but i will not drown in avarice
for thankfully still,
these altruistic prayers stand perpetual
like the shackles on my wrists
and the shadow that follows.

i then begin to grow fond of
an austerity
in which i willingly place my heart.