The Love of which our Past was Made

I count your love the dearest
theΒ  day you broke my heart,
the way you kissed my life away,
and tore my soul apart.
I look upon the wreckage,
the ruins you have laid,
admiring all the things you’ve done
of which our past was made.
I felt the tears come rushing
and fell and touched the ground,
when all at once it bore a spring
and there myself I found.
I saw a man he’s aching,
staring back at me.
His eyes were sore and cloudy
I doubt if he could see.
I asked, “Is there a problem?”
“Oh no, there is naught!
I only gave my life and all,
and look at what I’ve got:
a pair of hands that’s empty,
a heart that’s full of pain;
I nearly died to love her most
but look–it’s all in vain.
I served her every single day,
I loved her in the night.
Oh Holy Cow I love her still,
I hope that I still might.”
“Oh Crap! Will you forget it?
Your life is such a waste.
Love does come and feed your soul,
Then eats you up with haste!”
“But how can I get over this?
My life is now my grave.
No greater pain has plagued my heart,
than this–the love she gave.”

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