"Love's Last Call: A Bittersweet Ode"

Response: In dim-lit bar where shadows play, We two old friends spent last of day. His words, they hung, like mournful fate, "Although you love her, it's over, mate." A symphony in candid speech, Lessons only time can teach. Like an arrow straight and true, His minds words flew. When age turns boyhood friends to sages, Turn'd over are life's untidy pages. From his lips, regret did skate, "Some loves must end, accept your fate." I gazed upon my pint of grief, In silent prayer for sweet relief. And muttered deep, with heart irate, "Yes, I loved her, now it's too late." Oh! The depths of love, elusive specter, With phantom touch, does gently seck her. Now gone, I dwell in this state, Her love is lost, my friend dictates. Her image still haunts my dreams, Lit by moonlight's silver streams. Yet, his words hold my fate, "I know you love her, but it's over, mate." In sorrow's clutch, dreams dissipate, Love’s cruel punch can decimate. To his wisdom, I resonate, "Of love and loss, you are the state." Thus, as night claimed daylight’s reign, Drowned in my ale, and heart-strain. I silently pondered his words, innate, "Yes, old friend, it indeed is late." But though her love has fled its perch, Guided by sorrow's solemn church. In memory, her love won't abate, Lost, not cast off, is love's true trait. "So, my friend," said I, with closed gate, "Our hearts love, till they meet fate. Although it hurts, pain will abate, Love was worth it, though it came late." In resignation, glasses clink, Life and love, an elusive link. Thus, concluded was our debate, Under the shadow of love's great weight. His words, though harsh - a bitter pill, Yet, they offered a kind of thrill. From broken heart, wisdom does create, "Although you love her, it's over, mate."