Tale

Tales of love Are tales galore, Like stars in the sky That plenty adore. How beautifully they shine, How eloquent they sound, Yet amidst it all I stand, Dumbfound.

Of passionate love many a tale recount, Love so fiery it chars, Love like crimson sky, Love that is paramount.

A tale once told, A story of old, Of a man and a woman, Whose demise their love foretold. Their lineage they defied, For the flame of love they cried, Yet, their happiness hast fate denied.

Of passionate love, This tale resounds, Of tragic love the fates bestow, And never in life Has there ever been, "A tale of more woe."

Is love but mere embers cold? Or passion a flame that dies untold? Is love so tragic? Must I passion forego? Is all love naught but An ocean of sorrow?

Nay, claim the poets, For love is the seed That roots itself deep, Through trial and need. Not all love is fire, Or fleeting desire, Some love is the ember With which lovers soar higher.

Like Penelope's vigil Through long, sleepless years, Love waits not in silence, But through trials and tears. Not bound by mere longing, Nor fleeting embrace, But woven through time In patience and grace.

For love is the seed From which true hearts grow, Not swept by the tempest, But steady in flow.

Love not only nurtures, Nor burns with desire, But walks through the shadows, Through ruin and fire. For love, some suffer, For love, some weep, For love, some descend To the darkness deep.

A song once played in sorrow's embrace, A melody woven through time and space. Orpheus sang, his heart laid bare, For love, he braved the Underworld's stare. Through caverns vast and halls of stone, He walked for love, yet walked alone.

The fates stood silent, The gods took heed, But love must pay its toll, And love must bleed. With every step did his heart yearn To see her face, but he must not turn.

Alas! Orpheus turned, He turned too soon, And her grave was sealed, Her fate was doomed. Oh love, that bends, that breaks, that dies, Yet lingers still in mournful cries. For love, he lost, for love, he tried, For love, he sang, and for love, he died.

I read of love in tales and echoes of lore, Yet none could teach what hearts implore. Not in tragedy, nor passion's decree, Could I grasp what love meant to me.

Oblivious, I've been, To what love means and what hearts plea, Until love itself, in you, found me. My pillar had come, all set in stone, And my tale is true, My tale is you.