Spent

He woke up early in an empty bed, his fingers all wrinkled like prunes.
Trying to shake the song from his head, haunted by yesterday's tunes.

The song was a song of hatred.
The song was a song of tears.
The song had left him berated.
Impaling his soul upon spears.

This was not love, this space between them, for this space was a place of war.
While somewhere she nursed imaginary wounds, his wounds would fester some more.

His wounds where on the inside.
His wounds where wide and deep.
His wounds would not heal this time.
Forever would they weep.

He looked beyond the suffering, his 'self' for sale, or rent.
Past years amounted to nothing, his dreams of a future spent.