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Every Story Has Its End
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Amor Storied was the night
When your eyes mine had caught,
Brightened by moon and star,
'Twas then I knew what I sought:
An inviting face, whose cheeks of rosy gleam,
Told of God's own creation; his artwork to be seen.
That very eve I hoped and yearned
That me you would surely want.
I felt so alive, my body burned,
Deep and carnal, I hailed the hunt.
With fantasied focus and intentions strong
I spied you smiling a third time.
Departing were the band, the boisterous throng,
I saw my chance, you I wanted mine.
I spoke with words to impress, like a sage,
And you followed me to a festivity fine,
To a pivotal place called Pomeroy, the rage,
With its band, the throng, your kisses sublime.
Your first caress flowed forth tastes of milk and honey,
Such the way the ancient poets had described.
And I sensed then and there, my days sunny
would inevitably be prescribed;
Wherefrom, I'd later ink these thoughts to rhyme.
Alas, this and the rest, they say, are history,
For every story has its end.
Our storied moments now descend to frost,
Frozen in an apathetic universe for all eternity,
Someday soon forgotten and then, lost.
