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 inside – so full of grief,
when she left his hand and took another path,
and though he could still breathe the air,
it was so full of despair’s wrath.
Something shattered within his heart,
maybe the violins playing cupid’s tune.
While she distanced – stepped further away,
with tears he stood glancing at the moon.
How he prayed in his every breath,
to again have that nectar of sweetest love.
But alas! Her footsteps with his along the shore,
were wiped by time’s unkind tides above.
She came back to him but was it she?
For it was a mere shadow of what she were.
Her approaches were mere perfunctory ones,
her loving words were mere desultory ones.
And he tried in vain to rekindle that fire,
that once held witness to their glorious love,
of ecstasy and passion that learnt from them,
the meaning of kisses, souls merging hugs.
But indeed a mere shadow it was,
dark and unyielding of her former self.
She never came back from that path she took,
as now he sits on that garden bench; melancholic,
reminiscing of who she was, all by himself.
Literary Expeditions 