To The Victor, Goes The Spoils. Poem by david lessard

You may not miss me
when I'm gone,
And I'll not hold my breath;
I must leave this forlorn place,
Ot it'll be my death.

I cannot fight you anymore,
Your will to win is stronger;
I bow down to your anger,
But you'll find me here no longer.

The heart can only take so much,
Before it starts to die;
The body tends to shut on down,
Not really knowing why.

I've not far to fall, you see,
I'm already in the gutter;
There's nothing you can do,
No more words to utter.

We've been around this,
way too often,
Let's not open wounds
once more;
Let's call a truce and
and end it,
You've won the battle
and the war.

The final chapter has been writ,
The book's too many pages long;
Too many wounds and blood,
Too many blames and wrongs.

Your better off without me,
and I'm better without you;
I leave to your spoils,
The ones I never knew.