the chill of the rime

I fought the good fight;  
at least she left the disguise,  
the one with no feeling inside;    
a value left to summarize ageist  
in the poets matchless eyes;  
 
I saw her as I turned my head  
believing I was dead, tragic,  
A comfort, then the torment,    
I thought I was alive...  
but child, I had only survived.  
 
 
 
Note to self:  
Courage from hearts asunder,  
and not from numbers grow.