Never will he reach the mountains he aspires to,
The drama of his backdrop gently lapping amongst shimmering icy pools
With his stilted fluency and elegant phrase.
He watches her from afar,
He has for a while.
Claiming poetry and solace amongst the embittered images of Owen: trenches and pain,
Manifestations of precision and designer satire
Bristling under the cloak of advocate,
Devilishly elusive yet exquisite and refined...

She knows not to recoil with his mockery
Not to give him that satisfaction.
Not to give the glib horde of simpleton admirers the slightest sense to snigger in their stupidity.
Yet her sensitive nature will feel the sharpness,
The sting,
Delicate silver web of a glimmering trust;
Taut;
highly strung;
Broken now she knows.

He will still gaze at the mountains.
Precise movements.
Precise moments.
Precise language.
His admirers will still wallow in their unintelligent squalor...jumping and shouting like the hanging crowd they are.

The noose remains empty and oval and silent.

She remains in the shadows
Behind the heavy curtain
Waiting;
Waiting for her phone to ring.