The Love of which our Past was Made

I count your love the dearest
the  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.”


10 thoughts on “The Love of which our Past was Made

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