A Tale Untold

If I could tell a tale, what would it be?
A story of hope, of wonder, of glee,
of memories cherished, of passions that bloomed,
of laughter that echoed through sunlit rooms.

But none of these stories are true, I fear—
they’re mere illusions that never appear.
For the truth I hold is darker and cold,
a tale of silence, of dreams grown old.

If I could spin a yarn that would shine,
I’d weave it with gold, with love divine.
But the threads I have are frayed and thin,
woven with shadows where light wears thin.

A story of lust, of desire unquenched,
of hearts set aflame, of fists unclenched—
but those are fantasies, fleeting and wild,
a mask I wear, a dream beguiled.

The memories I keep are of time well spent,
or so I’d say if my heart could consent.
But in truth, the moments slip through my grasp,
leaving only echoes, a hollow gasp.

If I could tell you a tale to believe,
I’d wrap it in laughter, a gift to receive.
But all that remains is a truth so stark—
the emptiness hidden in the depths of the dark.

So here I stand, with a story untold,
longing for wonders that life cannot hold.
The pages are blank, the ink has run dry—
for none of my tales can lift me that high.

If I could tell a tale, what would it be?
One of hope, of wonder, of a love set free?
But none of these are true, I’m afraid—
just dreams that wither, just wishes that fade.