It's the late December gust
With the leaves of trees withering
And dew soaking the grass
And not a drop of sun coming in.
The mist covers the air
The path is unseen.
And this question pulls him to fear
Would she still remember him?
Looking through the pane
Brings him no comfort,
But only a smile on his face-
Which could never forth.
The pictures and portraits,
Though are empty colours now,
Could never persuade her to fade:
Their voices are too loud.
She might still be on the swing
Or gallivanting around the garden,
Or she'd be on the mirrors smiling,
Like she used to, far then;
With stars fastened upon her hair,
The sun shining through her eyes
And the sapphire sky, up there,
Makes the scene all fine.
She, be halfway across the world,
Yet he will remember her.
She's gone, never to return
Yet, in him she will surrender.
YOU ARE READING
Transcendence
PoetryHello, there readers! For a quick introduction to my work would suit its subtitle- 'A Collection of Scattered Feelings', I have maintained no fixed mood, so that my dear readers may see beyond a specific feeling, to feel it. The moods vary form sli...
