Literary Expeditions

He sat on a bench all by himself,
in the same garden, as before.
Looking at the same blossoming buds,
but not the same loneliness, t’was more.

Now the evening seems quiet and dull,
and the dusk has lost its touch,
there are no more chirping of the birds,
just lipless, unhappy smile of the skull.

Quiet, he sat there still,
to recourse that long way from whence he came,
when there was another – match’d with loving steps,
whose name now he breathes in pain.

A rush was it to have her there,
upon that same ol’ dusty road,
like a lake that lifeless stood,
now found a way to gush and flow.

He couldn’t believe how he found,
such a soul so pure and full of love.
A fool was he that he could’t see,
that old sword of deceit still dangled above.

He wept and cried from…