Once upon a youthful impulse,
pen and paper had a brief romance.
And this story I repeat was told,
of a valorous heart, in love bold.
Taught to always give his all,
he loved with heart and soul.
Believed until eternity passed
love had their hearts laced.
But an ill wind blew his way
and took her love away.
She spoke of seeing again
and severing the yoking rein
which had had her trapped
(Oh yes, trapped she called it).
And blamed her subdued wit
for time lost, in my arms wrapped.
So, in a common tergiversation of fate,
I watched love bitterly change to hate
for the storyteller and I were one.
Only difference: he observed, and I loved.
Later, in peace he wrote while I contrived
to repair a broken heart, only when done,
my soul whole, would I too finally be free.
Free to sail again upon the treacherous sea,
whence joys of love are likely met.
Free to seek freedom from regret,
with my sole and last item of leverage,
which is why there’s joy in this message:
I’ll not love you from the grave, in death,
I will not love you with my dying breath.
I’ll reserve that for my final repentance,
seeking absolution for my sins against me,
And with that one last chance
I’ll have no more love for thee.