A pen to strike the paper,
but not a page is left untouched
An empty line full of thoughts,
but there are no words to fill as such
A parapet, two sojourning souls
A hill, a sky, a distant tree.
A thousand years, a thousand more
A leveled ground, nothing to see
A flower, fragrance sweet.
Blood bestowed upon,
the flower that withereth,
a thing as vile as a thorn.
But the thorn, big enough a lie,
A lie told twice and thrice
bequeathed a blood so red,
a temporary, but strong, malice.
The petal’s disarmed fragrance,
ephemeral to the fifth sense.
But etched forever to the sixth,
every breath of it intense.
And the two sojourning souls,
with a brisk vision and blurred mind
try to understand the sky;
try to understand the concept of time
For their every blink and every tear,
every laugh, a ransom
for every moment has a meaning
that even time cannot fathom
A moment now will a moment be
Immortal to times knife.
You only live once, to die.
But die in the memory of life
