Dear reader,

Another poem! I've been reading a bit of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, as you can probably tell from the first stanza. But actually, the true inspiration for this poem was something a friend said to me yesterday:"I never lie in what I mean, only in what they hear." It got me thinking...and this poem is the result.

Thanks for checking it out, and please leave a review!

Bitter Irony

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Empty Words

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The sun burned down on fading trees

The moon would sooth the broken brooks

The petal-scenteed summer breeze

Tore through the pages of her books

As she read with her window opened wide

And mumbled over his empty words

All his truths and all his lies

Not what he'd meant, but what she'd heard

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He'd left her on a winter day

With promises that he'd return

Before the spring-time passed away

Before the trees began to burn

As she read with her window opened wide

In her ear he mumbled the words

"I'll always be there at your side,"

Not what he'd meant, but what she'd heard

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She watched as winter turned to spring

As January turned to June

And as the bluebirds began to sing

"He can't be long, he'll be home soon,"

she said, and left her window opened wide

Mumbling over his empty words

"I'll be there," he'd said, but so he'd lied

Not in what he'd meant, but in what she'd heard

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As summer-time to winter turned

As winter turned again to spring

And still on trees the sunlight burned

But still no whispers could it bring

To her, with her window opened wide

Mumbling over his empty words

So many times their meanings died

Not in what he'd meant, but in what she'd heard

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Now years went by and the fading trees

Fell down across the broken brooks

The petal-scented summer breeze

No longer came to read her books

And she closed her window, trapping inside

The memory of his empty words

"Memories often lie," she sighed,

"Showing not what they've said, and just what we've heard."

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There is no happy end to our tale

Gone are the trees and broken brooks

The breeze turned to a winter gale

And gone is she with the opened books

Her window is no longer opened wide

No memories remain of his empty words

He never came back to her side

If ever he meant to, we haven't heard--

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Though far be it from us to wonder why

He ever said such empty words

"I'l be there," we all say, and perhaps we all lie

Not in what we've said, but in what they've heard.