I am not what I see in the world and its nature.
I will not write anymore about
The state of being and the wisdom
The self, the time, the emotion
All I would write now is the lyrical ballad
At the face of utter decimation.
Our faces forgotten each other
Passing by everyday in the ocean of strangers
Exchange glances impassive, dreary
Our memories groping for words lost
Perhaps in another lifetime.
My sinewy hand once placed upon your cheek
My finger fiddling on your lips
Our eyes met perhaps on a way towards
The galaxy and stars in between.
At the end of the endgame
I would not preach any trite sonnet of love
But hold a handful of broken flowers
Upon the tomb of our remembrance.