Beyond those treacherous mountains,
lay a shack, rusty and old,
in sat a weary woman,
full of past memories and experiences,
of the lover she knew;
of the world she knew.
Knew none but her,
of the sacrifice gave he for her,
for the lover he knew;
for the world he knew.
With naught but her reminiscence,
waited she there, patiently,
for Death to materialise,
to waft her to him,
to her beloved,
to her haven,
and Death did;
and Death did.
YOU ARE READING
Rhythms From a Quarter Life
PoetryI will die the very moment this poetry collection is complete, not a moment more, not a moment less. Yet, what worries me is not death but never being able to complete this poetry collection. These are the rhythms resonating from a quarter-life.
