The ones that are gone.

having been wronged...I dissect the feelings one feels after a time of contemplation for the loss felt.

Gone.

Yet the words never stop.

Days slip on; runners in the distance...

Breathing in nothing, gasping for extinct air.

Why haven't they stopped?

Your pedestal.

A perch, a memory...

Both, now remain empty.   

From whence you were bolted,

now you are gone.

Premeditated destruction...
Or oblivious candor? 
Can humanity be so vile...
As to make promises with malice?

A cerebral prison cell...

The victim now sits waiting.
In silence, in trepidation...

In a positively masochistic nostalgia.    

But the precursor is gone. 
The simplicity is a tease. 
The grasp so straining, yet so empty. 
...And there are no answers. 

...Believe in the faults.

Remember that all is not just.

And the bits that are...
Are the ones that are missing...

The ones that are gone.