Ire

And so the man sat, vexed by the thoughts of knowing this feeling of love. As time would reveal, he knew nothing.

You care not for me

My thoughts, my wants, my will.

It is devoted to you and you bend it as you please.

You whisper to me promises of love.

The promise of a distant field, in the company of a tome.

This is not love.

You resent my input,

Running forth as you please.

I hate your adamance, but I know I cannot leave.

For my heart is yours. 

My heart,

My will,

My soul.

Such a shame, dear that it is yours.

For if I could move back through the years,

I would shield my affliction of care for you.

I would avoid the day I asked you for your hand.

This is not love.

Author's Note

Written in haste and hate. Forgive me.

Reviews

[Ana Papaya]

Sarcasm with a healthy dose of venom. Good poem.
If only we could undo such things...

[Crow]

Unfortunately they are parts of life. However, the saddest parts of life seem to surface the greatest of works. Thank you for your review.

[Ana Papaya]

Yes, true.
You're welcome.