Love is Broken Promises

It's funny how so many of my favorite pieces stem from the same bad memory; the worst because it lives with some of the best. I cannot even call it a regret; I still miss the visage and person who wrought such damage, and I sometimes wonder if I can forgive myself for the stupidity; for my choice to ignore what I knew better, for the sake of a love that I, even now, feel in my heart. There is something inescapable about it; healed as it may be, it has still left its mark. I turn around again and wonder if there is even anything to forgive.

I learned much about myself, much about love, and part of me pines for my heart before the breaking. I know I will never be so innocent, and I fear that I'll never have the courage again to open up so far. It's a grand contradiction, I think. I want, but I am afraid. And I cannot help but wonder if the unattainable interests that have risen since then, who, unlike the one who wounded are still friends, have been adored for their unattainability. It isn't really a risk if there is no hope of catching it. The scar cannot rip open again if there is nothing to snag it upon; no claw to tear it.

And yet, how much; how greatly do I wish to risk it again; to feel that way again. Why am I so afraid of it, and why do I want it so much? In the end, I think, it is a testament to hope which landed me in this place to begin with. It is hope fueled by the memory; for the love and passion was real, at least for me. And though I want to feel that way again, I wonder if I have been favouring my heart as one favours a broken leg. Have I become dependent upon a crutch because I think it is too painful to trust my heart with the weight of love? Perhaps I have not met the person who can give me the strength to challenge the fear. Perhaps I have not become aware of her, but I know that I have not challenged it. Has the crutch become an excuse? Have I abandoned opportunity for fear? Have the broken promises of love's fantasy left a kryptonite shard in my heart?


Love is Broken Promises

When first I came upon the mystery
I was amazed at what had given rise
To awaken my then innocent heart.
It was a sugar coated fantasy,
Crafted by stories and other such dreams
That let me, in love's false pathos, believe.

How could I not in such beauty believe?
How could I not chase love’s great mystery,
Filled as I was with such visions and dreams?
And was it lust or love given leave to rise
With my mind safe in banal fantasy
And ignorant to the depths of her heart.

So I gave and gave with all of my 'heart'
Guided by the fables I did then believe
Of the chivalry found in fantasy.
Did sacrifice there unto mystery,
The so-called passion that within did rise
This eager innocent chasing his dreams.

The wry myth of love took away my dreams
And robbed the treasure I kept in my heart
When passion's fabled dragon failed to rise.
Another's cunning led me to believe
In love’s grand and noble mystery;
A thief who well abused my fantasy.

So I learned of love and of fantasy,
Though my disbelief did maintain those dreams:
Her empty promises; my mystery.
Why did I follow with all of my heart
Those empty promises that I believed,
That led but to woe as love failed to rise.

Never more is love given leave to rise
For I know now true love's a fantasy
Born of the lies in which I did believe.
Love only lives within my veiléd dreams
For the scars left on my broken heart
Are too weak to survive false mystery.

Curse the mystery that fights still to rise;
Why does a heart bleeding false fantasy
Whisper of dreams I fear more to believe?