A tall figure I can see, behind the waiting queue in the bus station,
Indeed, he is a man with his lean torso and, a leaner unshaved face,
Standing under the sun, doesn't have his shadow but, could it be my wrong perception?
No one looks at him nor moves out of his way, no difference in anyone's pace,
His eyes shoot into mine and, I stay frozen unable to tear my gaze,
Unmistakably, he smirks, his pearly white teeth in full display,
Slowly and steadily, he walks through the people, tearing the crowdy maze,
Only to stop and blend with the mass while I stood unhinged to comprehend his unspoken relay,
His face so vivid and young stays the same as the day he was placed in a casket,
Mad and unstable my brain maybe, but if I can see my beloved through this every day,
Then I better stay mental and, choose bunches of flowers for him in a basket,
He is never gone and, shall return to me, even if all say he never will since his funeral day.
YOU ARE READING
Lost Game- Poem Collection
PoetryWater flowing through an inlet, where it quenches the thirst of many, irrigates the field and mostly give soothing music to the ears before joining the vast seas and oceans is a river or a stream. Similarly, if words flow from your heart to inspire...
