In shadows deep where whispers fade,
True love lies cold, in sorrow laid,
A fleeting dream, a ghostly wraith,
A flicker lost in time's embrace.
The tales of joy, the happy ends,
Are painted myths that fate pretends,
For hearts that beat with pure intent,
Are oft betrayed, their passion spent.
The lovers sworn with eyes alight,
Find darkness in the dead of night,
Their promises, like morning dew,
Evaporate, dissolve from view.
In every story told so bright,
The ending hides a bitter bite,
For love that's real, unfeigned, sincere,
Is met with loss, and silent tears.
The fairy tales, the songs we sing,
Are but a lie, a hollow ring,
For love, though deep and fiercely true,
Is seldom seen to follow through.
The world prefers the shining mask,
The easy lie, the simple task,
And those who love with hearts exposed,
Are left in shadows, doors all closed.
So here we sit, in quiet gloom,
Where love once bloomed, now sealed in tomb,
The happy endings, false and thin,
For true love, in the end, can't win.
YOU ARE READING
This house was never a home
PoesiaThis place was never home, The things that lie in it was memorizing some a taunting memory other pleasant some not
