The book lay open,
With memories forgotten
The present unopened
With the time to come, unwoven.
Pages with burnt edges,
And, dramatic utterances.
All, binded within a frame
Which was nothing
An evidence of the time
That had already lost its fame.
The chapters, as they perpetuated,
Love stirred and so did hatred.
And, our story was eventually torn.
Pondering about what is gone,
And, acting all forlorn.
It is not a crime
With a few emotions at cost,
The tenderness in me became sore
And, the faith in you got lost.
I ask for nothing more
The piece of my soul that you once tore.