the last they spoke
he said it all
he said his back was to the wall

and far from being
her best friend
a man who'd rather see it end

she just can't argue
with his truth
it's not her way for in her youth

she dreamed of places
not pretend
big open spaces where they'd spend

in long embraces
hours on end
through field he chases closest friend

but that's not how
her story goes
she won't reaping what he sows.

Born at night
but not last night
I see the problem with her plight

she wants to make
the pieces fit
complete the scene her mind has writ

but forcing love
to take it's place
to glue the pieces down, a waste

just take a picture
make it last
'cause that one will be fading fast

Let him go
and shut the door
Sow true love and reap far more.

the last we spoke
I said it all
my tendency to blame the fall

and all the angst
scorned love could spare
on fires of Hell, which can't compare

how well I argue
with the truth
it's been that way since troubled youth

I dreamed of forests
not pretend
of wooded hollows with my friend

where trees grew tall
but wind could bend
where fires could rage but love would send

the rain which hastens
souls to mend
that's not my story, so, The End.