A Love Grown Old.

Seven falls have come and gone.
Life has pressed us paper thin.
The seasons pass and love rusts;
Indifference comes creeping in.

No touches now, no parting glances,
No cards or sentiments on flowers;
No tender private smiles
To ease the pain of the passing hours.

The hours! Oh, the hours
Hasten away and my body grows cold,
While I wonder if this is true
Of a love that seems to grow old.

Grows old with my ageing face,
With those young eyes now morose,
Over a lack of interest,
In a love, in captured repose.

Words on Thought.

In my heart, there are certain places that are shared by none;
For those are the places restricted to the number one,
Among whom special people share a certain heart-view;
And among this number I count you.

In life, life itself fails to allow words to express each emotion
Every fish can certainly not describe each and every ocean
Aye, at times, a word communicates itself by thought,
In days like these, these are rarely wrought.

The thought to call out lurks all day, then the eye spots an eye,
So this thought suddenly unfurls its wings and begins to fly,
When the eye, done, blinks and rebounds to it, by-and-by,
The thought is consumed by the blue sky.

Words again I use to describe the thought that was forgotten,
Threads of silk I need to use to tie up this wayward cotton,
To let you know, in this place, in my heart, where you reside,
There is but soft simple cotton with no silk beside.

Love’s Complexity.

As a child, I felt crestfallen seeing
A film on a lioness a woman tames;
It needed a graver understanding
Of how love chooses to play its mean games.
Today I saw a similar story:
How a boy watches, broken-heartedly,
His pet, in whom he fostered love’s glory,
For its own safety, swimming back to sea.
It is thus I guess that it is to be:
Despite the pain and to its core be true,
There comes a time to just stand back and see
If pulling back gets me closer to you.
Love surely has its own complexity:
To get it all, one has to set it free.