The strings won’t play so nice,
rusted and ready to unstring.
The wood is out of shape,
yielding to the tears that swept in.
The melody went mute,
silence claimed it’s place again
The music is all gone,
the guitar waits in guilt, alone.
The heart feels cold and dark,
the fire of love is drenched in pain
The pen lost its way somehow,
poetry is just a fading ink stain.
The time will turn your memories to gray,
like the roses that will wither to dirt.
The broken dreams will end up as ruins
like ashes from letters that’ll be burnt.
The songs feel incomplete now, without your name.
This has finally come to an end; the twisted cupid’s game.
Photo by Christine Sandu on Unsplash
InfinitePoet 