The Poet Who Cried Love

April 7, 2010
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There once was a Poet
Who tried hard not to show it,
But always cried: "love."
As if decreed by God above

There'd be a lady he should meet
And he would immediately fall, head over feet
Thinking that she was She
But always mistaken, was He

He used a sonnet to show
The ink and "love" he would flow.
A couplet for a belief
Of the "love" he doth bequeath.

Not realizing time and again
That meaningless were the scribbles of his pen
For they went not to one who's True
But to one who soon out the window flew

His muse was always a bird of flight
A girl who would fly in mid night
Time and again our dear Poet would fall
But would quickly jump at the next maiden's call

So his words soon lost meaning
To all the people he was meeting
All mentioned the Poets frivolity
To such a point he nearly lost all civility

No one in the town where he lived
Believed it True; the "love" he'd give.
From the most high and powerful Man
Down to the most unimportant of them

Yet there was one young Maiden
Fair and tall, with blond hair laden
Who listened not to other persons
But formed her own, unique opinions

Their meeting was, but a chance
On a dull day of happenstance
Twas in a quiet garden
The Poet would beg the Maiden's pardon


Both were to the garden traveling
To visually ease the lives they were handling
Both walked fast, heads faced down
As if contemplating the feet that occupied the ground

They went to see the Sun, the flowers too.
Our Poet and our Maiden, who
Enjoyed the sights and scents of garden life
And found that such things did ease their strife

The Poet was weak and weary
As his recent "Love" had left him dreary
Our Maiden was in a similar mood
Since Her father's death, had three years ensued

It was on the patch of grass
They had both chosen not to pass
But sit and gaze awhile
First at the flowers, then a mirrored smile

This Maidens style was not such
She knew not why She yearned his touch
Or wanted words, from him out pour
Or thought that he could never be a bore

Here the Maiden caught Herself
And realized it was lust She felt
Nothing more was there in Her
But an interest and a lingering wonder

"What could this man be thinking?"
With a smile so devilish and enchanting
She hoped he would not continue it
She knew him as a local Poet

Though she judged him not for this
But wanted, for the time, to feel bliss
Know him for what he said
Not what others put in her head

So as the smile broke
The Poet coughed away his choke
And began to talk to our fair Maiden
Of the grass, that they laid in

She consented to this conversation
Speaking slow, with true deliberation
To see what it was this Poet did want
From our Maiden, on this grassy spot

He spoke of fair flowers and their beauty
As if he could converse with them, truly
He seemed to simply want to converse
But the dear Maiden was being terse

So He spoke to the other aspects of
The garden and Heavens above
Till She thought of him no harm
Just a nice man of town

They spoke all throughout that day
Of ideas, dreams, and adventures gay
They spoke till the sun did set
But Neither saw need to fret


Isolation was not in the mind
Of the Poet who saw no end in time
So when they parted for the evening
He inquired for another meeting

Thus the following day was not by chance
Nor some brilliant happenstance
The Maiden met him on that square
Soon to let Her Heart out, on a dare

Days grew long into months
The couple never missed a day, not once.
The Poet was beginning to think of Her
As more than a muse, that was sure

He fell hard, He fell so fast
But his was not fake, it was True at last
He knew not how to say:
He never wanted to miss a day

Our Poet had told the Maiden all
The past few months, of his constant falls
She knew Him well, inside and out
A friend She loved, not a doubt

Though She still did not trust him
And continued to question possible lusting
So when He broke His fateful news
She was doubting, fearing abuse


He told Her of how he felt
Looked Her in the eye and knelt
Promising His self for Eternity
From down on that bended knee

Our Maiden looked and contemplated
He seemed True and elated
Yet She still felt a need to question
His motives and His possible misdirection

After a time of clever thought
It was this She, back at Him, shot:
"I cannot help, but to believe
I am yet another poem you wish conceive

How many a maiden have you danced
With these words and circumstance?"
She thought it smart to question here
And see if He was True and sincere

For She knew He had played this game
With many others, before this dame.
So She was blunt and hard in word
Thus He said back all that to Him occurred:

"I swear Dearest Maiden you are not
I swear by my Lord and graveyard plot
You are my one and only Dear
Thus take my hand, not in fear."

Our Maiden had heard these vows
But questioned still His kneels and bows
Continuing farther, to test His Truth
She denied Him, to judge his response

What our dear Maiden did not suspect
Was His True and Honest intent
Thus Her words had hurt Him so
He could not take such a blow


The pain He knew was unimaginable
To be denied by His Love, now intangible
He could think of no worse fate
Than His Love taken, on this date

He ran from Her there
Leaving Her to watch and stare
The Maiden thinking She had seen through
His apparent lies, but untrue

The Maiden knew not what she had done
As She watched Her scorned Lover run
She would have no way to stop
The atrocity soon to happen on this spot

Her way was made, home that night
Thanking God she had avoided fright
That this false man was out of Her life
Never again to cause Her strife

Our Poet had left, that place of proposing
A melancholy man and lonely
Seeing no reason to live a life
Where He could not take His Love as His wife

Through the night he wrote a lament
His final poem, to His Love to be sent
Or rather to be found with Him
On morrow's break, when light let in

Once His farewell was well complete
He ventured, in the night, back to that street
Where He had knelt and spilled his Heart
Soon His blood, this world to depart


On the very spot He lay
Where He had kneeled the previous day
He unsheathed His so recently sharpened knife
He placed it over His heart, so as to take His life

He plunged into the darkness fast
As sun broke sky, He breathed his last
One hand clutched knife, the other letter
So our Maiden may find Her life better

The town soon woke for the morn
A cry broke out, "A body is torn!"
All in town ventured to see
The Poet who no longer be

The Maiden soon came in to town
With some confusion, to see such a crowd
Her decision was to take a look
At the event by which the town was shook

She reached the front only to find
The Poet who had loved Her blind
Through this sight, She realized though
That True it had been, His pain and woe

This Poet had loved Her, Truly So
She had thrown it away, with a word filled blow
She knelt by His side, as He had done previous
Weeping silently, for His life lost

Spotting the letter, adorned with Her name
She picked it up, to take Her blame
But this paper contained no words of Her deed
Just three words for Her to read


"I love You."
She now knew it True
"I love You."
There was nothing left She could do

It was on that spot
She found Her graveyard plot
She never got up from Her kneel
But on that spot, into Death did steal

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