Of Dead Poets Tales

Pretty songs only sound romantic to those who find beauty in words written in memory of others,
Full of love and sweetlings and sentiments that make the heart weep.
Our story is the stuff made of dead poets tales,
Forbidden, longing and just out of reach for a pair of destined hearts.
Some say Romeo and Juliet is a tale of passion and love,
Two hearts so intertwined that not even blood feuds and death could keep them apart,
but I know the more cautious tale,
A love that takes and takes and takes, so don’t remind me the price of love
For the cost is way to high for an open heart like mine.

But this heart will still continue to bleed out for you,
Beating strongly only when in your presence,
And I swore I had told myself to stop these silly feelings,
Nothing good can come from a heart wrapped up in fantasy and romance
But she has other plans, and my head can only shake in disbelief.
So she plays and plays, tempting the devil,
Feigning shock when she is burned more then once,
Wanting what is absurd and unobtainable,  so I simply jump in the dark.
But isn’t that what love is? A leap of faith, a shot it the dark, a terrified chance?
I let her take her chances with men and women, who never end up being what they
portray,
And try to remain optimistic (but my heart has become so jaded, so distrustful. I even
miss the days of fantasy and romance)
Watching as each failed attempt is as tragic as a Shakespeare original.
And I laugh because that is the only thing I can do now,
For I have learned not to question what the heart wants.

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11 thoughts on “Of Dead Poets Tales

  1. alongtheinterstice says:

    an eloquent meditation, reflection on what pulls the heart and the consequence of that leap of faith, and then the next leap, and then the next. And to not become so jaded so as to stand on the ledge and say ‘no, i won’t leap this time.’

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Dr. Thomas Maples says:

    But isn’t that what love is? A leap of faith, a shot it the dark, a terrified chance?
    I let her take her chances with men and women, who never end up being what they
    portray,
    And try to remain optimistic (but my heart has become so jaded, so distrustful. I even
    miss the days of fantasy and romance)

    I will not attempt to qualify love. But I will take a leap of faith to answer what may be so jaded, that the author cannot even qualify love.

    Love is a writer’s soul. Not the writer, but the soul that produces. It depends on faith, and faith in the unknown. Those secret recesses that lay beneath the obvious, and permeate into the depths of the unknown. Good luck, and God Speed fellow travelers. Let us find Peace within Our Journey!!!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. vivissperandum says:

    Nice post !! I’m currently reading r.h. Sins’ Whisky Words & a Shovel…if you haven’t read it yet you should 🙂 maybe you’d like it. I find your views are kind of like his, discussing the fantasies and helplessness that come with being in love!! Very nice stuff !

    Liked by 1 person

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