• The tale that is told, others cease to behold

    Interpreted as bold, magnificent like gold.

    Not unlike some of those, that tell torment by prose.

    Beauty like a rose, captivating like rows,

    Of angels all in line, ready to sing and chime.

    Unfortunately mine, a story told by time,

    of sorrow and regret, I wish to soon forget.

    Almost as if a bet, or some kind of old debt,

    left unpaid, unmade, broken. The last unused token,

    a consolation left, is that of my regret.

    One that should not be told.