Friday, 17 October 2014

The missing fragment of ardour...

The book lay open,
With memories forgotten
And,
The present unopened
With the time to come, unwoven.

Pages with burnt edges,
Underlined clauses
And, dramatic utterances.
All, binded within a frame
Which was nothing
But,
An evidence of the time
 That had already lost its fame.

The chapters, as they perpetuated,
Love stirred and so did hatred.
Intensity prolonged,
Misconceptions formed
And, our story was eventually torn.

Pondering about what is gone,
And, acting all forlorn.
It is not a crime
Yet,
Squandering time.

With a few emotions at cost,
The tenderness in me became sore
And, the faith in you got lost.
Today,
I ask for nothing more
But,

The piece of my soul that you once tore.

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