Some yesterdays haunt my corridors
Some yesterdays say goodbye
Some yesterdays bless my coldness away
Some yesterdays ask me why
Sometimes I shy and cuddle up in the dark
Some days I cry my sorrows through
Some moments wring my heart out with the pain
But yesterday will be the last I think of you
Doors are waiting unopened
Poems take too long
The rains that ask for you
Wonder if the address was wrong
The drops that rain upon my cheek
Cry to the winds- the address was wrong
The one that once ignited the soul
has washed with him the memories long
the drawers are filled with you
the emptiness makes me bleed
bare walls sting with their stare
upon my sorrow the demons feed
Upon my sorrow the laughters mock
Of those distant times, the stopped clock.
'twas yesterday I thought you were beside me,
but the feel diffused into stark reality.
The knock lies too often.
Wind whispers to weeping dew.
The night keeps donning black,
To mourn the absence of you.
The starfillled nights, the joyous days.
The memories I cannot lock up, gnaw everyday.
The stage calls out for you and me;
The stage now lies quite meaninglessly...
Upon my brow the melancholy sleeps ,
Slumber lies awake all the while.
It dies on barren sands today,
The skin that drowned with the touch of your Nile.
The soul that died in thy absence
awakened upon the ashes today.
It sored over the ocean of sorrows;
but will the tide that destroyed a many stay at bay?
I wonder if it would wash away,
Your footprints from my shore.
I wonders if it will drown the whispers
The fabric of you I wore.
The rustle of those fabrics,
The touch of you on those very fabrics
I hold close to my bosom
for those are the fabrics of my lost past- Oh! how I lost you!
Of that bloom that withered young,
Of that star that fell tonight;
Of that song that died unsung,
In the shades of whispering light.
Of that poem that lies unfinished
Of that tale never meant to be
Of that word we were to say to another
Lie the romantics in mourn.
The heart in the lap of your sonnets
The soul in the embrace of your prose
The self that stares in my mirrors
I tremble to see it close.
I can't look in the mirror
my heart pains for the sore-
for whatever you have left behind;
leaves me wanting for more, much more.....
For on this heart you sketched
A tale that has no end
And the dying song in my heart
Only to thee I shall send.
And whence it falls upon thy heart, the winds'll let me know,
for the aching heart has miles to go before,
it meets you at that distant end!
And then we shall see, if our story ends, does it really end?
The ends we crossed before tired time
No fences bar my love
And in that splendid form sublime
Fearlessly soars my dove.