That elusive true love,
Sorrow makes its way down her face,
The night comes to a still,
Foliage cradling her pain,
Birds singing her a lullaby
Love greeted her in the mornings,
With that mischievous smirk of her beau
Love held her tight,
A fuel to ignite the engine,
On a rock-hewn path
But, the nights?
Oh, the nights
The truth stung like a nasty poison,
Buried beneath the sheets,
The void to the left drew all the cold
She used to be enough,
They used to be enough
When did she fade?
Or, when did his true colors bloom forth?
Now, I watch her everyday,
Through the windows of the coffee shop
She sits there alone,
The park bench her home
'Cause there's no cure like solitude
I do not pity her,
I only despise my naivety,
My belief in the myth,
The myth of true love.

YOU ARE READING
A budding writer's collection
PoetryJust a bunch of poems written as and when I feel to write them