A sculptor of devotion chiseled away
at the stone of her desires,
pouring his heart into every stroke,
a masterpiece carved in love's name,
but the shadows of doubt loom large.
His 110%, an offering laid bare,
a sacrifice to the altar of her whims.
Yet, echoes of appreciation whispered faintly,
as if carried away by a capricious wind,
leaving him grasping at the vapors
of affection that never fully materialized.
She was a cipher, an enigma,
and her expectations, a shifting mirage.
He danced on the tightrope of her moods,
an acrobat in the circus of uncertainty,
but the applause he craved remained
trapped in the silence of her indifference.
No rhyme or reason, he mused,
for he was a giver of constellations,
but she was a taker of stars, indifferent.
Love reduced to a futile equation
where reciprocity was an elusive phantom.
Answering the whisper of surrender that softly calls,
he drew near the ultimate fragment,
marked by the fatigue of relentless efforts,
and with a weighty breath,
he carved his final stroke,
no reason left to hold, no reason to endure.
No malice in his decision,
just the quiet acceptance of an unsolvable puzzle,
the resignation of a sailor
who has charted every sea, every shore,
and finds no harbor of solace.
His head hung, and his shoulders drooped in defeat,
he walked away from the piece,
abandoning what was left of his creation;
the final act carved in the stroke of inevitability.
No reason to rekindle what never really sparked.
