Tybolt's Glare

There he sits, glaring up at me: I shudder.

In wondering the meaning for this

strange interaction, haunting memories appear.

Now, he is my Paris: with no comparison to

my true love, Romeo.

To the outside we appeared compatible;

time proved to show our accurate selves.


This glimpse within his dark sinister smiling eyes,

I question his thinking: if I perhaps be,

his Juliet?

Or his Rosaline?


This glance leaves me pondering in my mind;

Could he have moved on?

I claim this with no egotistical cares,  

claiming either portrayal makes no difference to me,

but moreover changes my whole outlook on life:

it being the question that runs my existence.

How much long shall I look over my shoulder,

to carry the grief and pain of simply hearing his name?


But, I am left with no answer from his eerie, un-nerving stare.

I shall rather be slain having some great wonderful jest,

like Mercutio’s many double meanings; causing

the ever raging Tybalt, to send his murdering knife-like glare at me.


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