When love departs
Random thoughts which I avoid to feel, perforate the cobwebs in my mind to light up in the glory of conscience.
The thick mist in its rain sketched smell envelopes poetry in folds. It liberates memories down the vortex, and the lines read. The grand Bougainvillea, engulfs the house, masking the grey within with its warm pink hue. What remains of the concrete skeleton if no love is left to bind it? The modified stairs long for steps. Our laughter and prayers, tales of agony, the weeping bricks recite, long after we have moved on. Even the sparrow, whose nest with care we made, has left in pursuit of warmth, for none is left when we have moved on. The elderly Mango tree has stopped bearing fruits, for no child is childish any longer, to gather about, and relish the sweet essence, in the summer afternoon. No innocence is left, the house lies barren, devoid of the caring call or aroma of delicacies. The trees, they shed leaves in fear, their valuable wood is void of tears, yet pain they do feel, not of a thousand cuts but the departure of love. The mirror too, longs to see, gleaming faces without pretence. But our lives still are shaped by the old memory lanes.
