To be lying there with a heavy heart,
having had his soul bled out through his tears,
what else could he do, for neither his words,
nor his actions, nor the deeds of his past,
had any meaning or made a difference,
the memories were just what it seemed
like now, whispers of a silent dream,
that one yearns to hold on to, to cherish and remember,
but which eventually evades one's reach.
And then what can one do,
with a reality that's made of broken dreams and shattered promises,
but slowly mend the wounds in the heart,
as the days go by, the needle pierces to take the suture in,
it pierces again to bring it out,
and as the blood drips into the small pool beside,
he could only stare and stare into himself,
for the outside was without light, without warmth and without dreams.
Hers was a different world now,
where the past was just a memory,
and the present a world of new dreams -
with castles one built up towards the sky.
She wished the same for him and said so outrightly,
but if only she truly understood the reality they shared
was but not the same in hue and shade.
How could things have turned out this way?
He asks her and she tries to convince.
She asks him and he searches in the silence.
Neither know what had made that flame,
that once lighted their spirits,
a flame that kept them warm in their solitude,
a flame that gave hope even in their separation,
to slowly wean away and break into a silent smoke.
They try to talk, to plead against their stars,
that the wounds might be fresh and open,
the blood might yet drip on,
and new dreams might be nurtured
upon those trampled ones of yesteryear,
but yet those memories were real.
They ask to let what's done not shear their trust,
that as friends maybe they can see,
each other in the other's eyes.
But, alas, who shall guide them ahead?
For time is the tyrant of the many,
who colludes with one's memory and weakness in spirit,
to erase away the beauty, the hope and the memories.
As humans, we are a fickle being,
in the steady truth we believe,
but in our capricious whims we deceive,
ourselves most and more so our selves to be.
having had his soul bled out through his tears,
what else could he do, for neither his words,
nor his actions, nor the deeds of his past,
had any meaning or made a difference,
the memories were just what it seemed
like now, whispers of a silent dream,
that one yearns to hold on to, to cherish and remember,
but which eventually evades one's reach.
And then what can one do,
with a reality that's made of broken dreams and shattered promises,
but slowly mend the wounds in the heart,
as the days go by, the needle pierces to take the suture in,
it pierces again to bring it out,
and as the blood drips into the small pool beside,
he could only stare and stare into himself,
for the outside was without light, without warmth and without dreams.
Hers was a different world now,
where the past was just a memory,
and the present a world of new dreams -
with castles one built up towards the sky.
She wished the same for him and said so outrightly,
but if only she truly understood the reality they shared
was but not the same in hue and shade.
How could things have turned out this way?
He asks her and she tries to convince.
She asks him and he searches in the silence.
Neither know what had made that flame,
that once lighted their spirits,
a flame that kept them warm in their solitude,
a flame that gave hope even in their separation,
to slowly wean away and break into a silent smoke.
They try to talk, to plead against their stars,
that the wounds might be fresh and open,
the blood might yet drip on,
and new dreams might be nurtured
upon those trampled ones of yesteryear,
but yet those memories were real.
They ask to let what's done not shear their trust,
that as friends maybe they can see,
each other in the other's eyes.
But, alas, who shall guide them ahead?
For time is the tyrant of the many,
who colludes with one's memory and weakness in spirit,
to erase away the beauty, the hope and the memories.
As humans, we are a fickle being,
in the steady truth we believe,
but in our capricious whims we deceive,
ourselves most and more so our selves to be.
