Work Text:
Another Chance In Heaven
by Pirate Turner
He sat alone in the room,
His mind full of doom.
He knew that love would never be his again
Nor would happiness or peace ever be his to gain.
Tears fell from his blue eyes like rain
As he fought against the pain.
Never had anything hurt like this,
Not a musket's fire nor the bite that followed a snake's hiss.
Never before had his heart been torn in two
Nor his soul ripped asunder
To the point it made him ache to commit his own murder
For no other escape would do.
He had tried,
Again and again to ride the tide,
But there was no relief in sight
And he knew that his only relief lay
In his own might,
Though he struggled daily to keep such thoughts at bay.
If only that promise he had not made,
Or those words he had not said,
He could now be free,
But his future, he had never been able to see
And he never would have dreamed
That her love for him was not as great as it seemed
And that she would leave him for another who pleasantly beamed.
She had made him promise,
When of suicide he had first come to surmise
As a way of escape,
That he would never do such a thing,
And he had promised freely as he had kissed her neck's nape
And spoken of the day on her finger
He would be able to place a ring,
But that was the zinger
For she had not kept her promise to him
But only, with her beauty, inside and out, blinded him.
She had left him, casting a permanent tattoo on his heart
And condemning him to a life worse than Hell
And so it was he stayed assail
And never even took any notice of a single tart.
She was the only one he wanted,
The only one he could ever love,
And the only one who ever haunted,
Her memory making its mark
On every second of his life.
Like a siren's hark,
She beckoned to him even now,
Telling him he destroyed his own life
When out of her world, he had taken his bow,
But he had never wanted to leave her.
She had pleaded with him to go,
But never would he have thought from his love to release her.
He thought only of getting well
And setting back to her loving, welcoming arms on sail,
But while he was gone, a stranger had moved in,
And stolen everything that had ever truly mattered to him.
His failure to return more swiftly had been his only sin.
When he had landed and been told the news
Of Rolfe's Indian Muse,
He had sought out his love
Only to learn from her best friend
That he had truly been dealt a cruel trick from above
And his beautiful, graceful, awe-inspiring dove
Had chosen another nest
In which to permanently rest.
Nakoma's words that day had his heart rend.
He had never recovered, and he knew he never would
As long as in his heart did sound
The steady beating of the drum
That called, "Pocahontas. Pocahontas.
Pocahontas!"
And could neither be covered nor hid
With any amount of ale, whiskey, or rum
With which good-bye, he tried his cares to bid.
Even the smallest of things, like the willow
Of the bed he now sat on caused her memory to bellow
Until his sanity was long gone away
And his misery impossible to keep at bay.
He should just lift his musket
And send himself to his casket,
But even that would not silence the tattoo that beat
Like a war drum in his heart, mind, and soul.
It would only set
His flesh to being licked by Hell's eternal bowl.
He would never see her again
Nor have any hope of feeling her velvet touch again,
And so he held on desperately to bottle number seven,
Hoping for another chance in Heaven.
The End