The grain of the sand
The pen of the scribe
The song of the siren
The visions of the seer
Stuff by Me
30 Jan 2005
'Tis no slight task to make yourself forget
A love betrayal which doth wound the pride,
One which throws aside all moral honor
And only lets live in the heart swift pain.
For no love conquered is a living love
But more a love dead and full of pained doubt.
But t'wasn't virgin love, which ne'er does doubt,
But rather the willingness to forget
That while your woman spoke of snow white love,
She in turn sought to embrace sordid pride
And left in her wake a soft stabbing pain
Which killed and strangled your unsoiled honor.
T'was by this sweet slip the loss of honor
Was made while you sat alone with no doubt;
And now solit'ry and in such fresh pain,
You'll learn that no drink will help you forget
That which was once your sweet love and your pride
Now holds no more heart for you and your love.
So drink slow and drink long to smitten love,
And although blacken'd is your old honor
It is still possible to hold some pride.
For you so sweetly did not ever doubt,
And you so gently forced yourself forget,
That although you endured so great a pain,
That although she forced upon you this pain,
You still see her with a remitted love.
So pray that one day you may her forget,
Pray that one day restored be your honor,
So future loves who do not need your doubt
Will bring you life and uphold your mild pride.
'Tis in these future loves be found new pride,
And in them a wholly gentler new pain,
One that will not so much need your new doubt
But hopefully just your renew'ed love.
With your new prudence you will find fresh honor.
With your new prudence you will soon forget
That which took your pride and took your sweet love,
That which gave you pain and soiled your honor,
That which you now doubt and drink to forget.