Crisp Fall air sends rust leaves afloat
Park benches with their self-indulgent curves
Become home to one too many of the russet princesses
Street lamps play the part of the courted lover,
Reluctantly alighting but with a fragile light
A tawny cat walks along the grey path
As the thrush sings in its abode,
Nestled among the three lamps of light
The land is home to the souls of the past,
As the ides of October pass and the 31st strikes
Clandestine is their love affair
'Cause for better or for worse,
The living are blind
A Waltz for the lovers of yore
As the years passed between them,
Paints their love a deeper hue
Some sit on the benches,
Tears flow freely as the newness of death
Feels jarring under the lamp's glow
The veterans in the reapers' pick
Dance vibrantly to a quadrille's tick
Memories of their years of death
Filled with peace, having attained bliss
The thrush is still singing
As the moon shines, a solitary orb in the sky
Stars seem to shine to light their love
Like a cosmic chandelier, witness to death's party
One must thank this deserted lane,
The living don't roam around
And by a divine calculation,
The dead play the living
Every October in Lover's Lane

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