Once a man had died.
He was alive; but dead inside.
His heart was broken like a fragile glass.
By a lovely, but tormenting glass.
And so, he whispered to himself,
“None I shall love, other than myself.”
And thus, his soul was dead.
For his love is gone for the days ahead.
In darkness he lurked, like a nocturnal bat.
The lovers he saw, did he shot.
For the man was mad,
Not to the girl, but to the love he could’ve had.
Until one night, when he walked alone,
In the eerie darkness where the moon never shone,
He met a woman whose beauty’s so rare:
Of velvet lips, rosy cheeks and skin so fair.
Once again, the man felt amity.
His sorrow is gone; again he is happy.
Gone are the days where he roamed the darkness.
For his soul thrives, in luminous brightness.
Yet, fear still creeps on his spines.
“Will she be mine?”
His thought inquires.
He fears of getting broken; in pain he tires.
And so he asked the young lady:
“Girl, will you be mine?”
He knelt in front of her
Awaiting for an answer.
“Yes I will. A thousand times yes”
At last! Did the girl confess!
She hugged him like he was a plush toy.
And for she thought the man, be her bundle of joy.
And soon did the man knew.
He was starting love so anew.
He broke his whispers to his redeemed heart.
And he was happy. For its pieces be never apart.
