A road loops through misty lands.
On that road, is a swing hung from invisible ropes
Right in the middle of nowhere.
Swinging gently, rocked back forth
by unseen hands of Time.
A woebegone figure sits slumped.
He writes a story, weaving in
lost strands of love, lust,
fate and destiny.
The story covers the grey skies
like a blanket, casting a sombre glow.
Ink lies splattered over the clouds
Tears flow river like, touching his soles.
He melts away bit by bit as he reaches
the story’s end.
There was nothing left of him any more.
The wind carries his lost story to
lovelorn skies. A mournful song it sings
The swing sways empty,
For someone else to pass by.
Komal Gupta @ tejaswiniaura