Our tragedy is not that of our dreams.
The innocence and heros from our youth,
Our longings for love and trust, it seems,
Were replaced with the painful realities; truth.
Sweet phrases we claimed were just not our style,
Yet we each confess owning bardic hearts.
Could it be, instead, that in our short trial
We could not from habitual defenses part?
Our tragedy is perhaps we were too real.
Yet recently, curiously, you did find
My yearnings for what I once called ideal.
You asked, maybe hoping you were still on my mind?
Know then these few words speak my heart true,
And the lines you read first were not for you.