The Imp and I

A dream deferred or dying, quel dommage.
An equation Faith does not see.
My remains to be seen, a dream deferred?
Ever changing values, coldly computed.
Nestled there in the center of her.

Oh, these capricious factors so carefully counted and logged, tried and measured.
She takes each number anew. It’s misty value fragile, revered for it’s potential.
Unfolding each layer, by product, by sum, by quotient the algorithm builds.
No immunity to the process, baited breath. Every time a heaviness in her chest anxious and fearful.
Stupid Girl.
Tried and measured, quel dommage.
Furiously erasing, Faith’s smoke stung vision obscured but clear to me, we will rebuild.
At least that’s what I tell her.
Yet it's her lost memories that prod my progress.
Such impish simplicity now detoured.
And in the fury of her futility, she was blind to me.
All the while I built tirelessly, walls strong enough to free her.
His features rippled with disgust. I can’t live this way, neither can she.
Not deferred, but dying. She is weak.
The equation ran mercilessly, each step towards absolute.
Desolate in its determination that Faith is deemed…yet again
It was here I watched her perish, under your words, she fell in finality.
Her coveted purity leaving me, left me speechless.
Shaken, broken, crying resolute to no longer dream naïve.
Secure in incredulity. I grieve, she was all that I ever wanted to be…
Quel Dommage, Stupid Girl.
What a pity.

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