The Ring

A small golden ring with a blood–red heart Rests amid his gadgets and the clutter Of his desk like some famous work of art. He gazed at its bright luster then muttered: “Why must your keepsake evoke this sadness In my heart each time I gaze upon you? Her ring remains but also my madness Lingers on, anguish I’m suffering through. Oh heart! Must your heartthrob keep on beating Since my lover’s heart stop beating long ago? Must this ring bestir in me these feelings, Unfeeling band must you torture me so? Will you ever grant the peace I’m seeking Or remain a hopeless pawn of her ring?”