The pages of fate, Ah’, unseen by us, yet we live,
Through them, sometimes we fight, most times, succumb.
Through life, we write many pages into history, unknowingly,
Stories and poetry, forgotten upon moss-filled headstones.
Then there are those emotions that deliver feelings,
Through them all through growing life we weave,
Fabrics filled with art in grandeur upon which we paint,
What felt in happiness, as dreams fulfilled and as life lived,
What felt in sadness, as haunting dreams, unfulfilled, and burned,
Pages every living being love to burn fast and forgotten,
Oh’, I remember the ways I have weaved the fabrics and painted,
Dreams with you, about you, life with you, and the burning of all.
Oh’, I wish those pages were not set on fire in a broken heart,
Where the folds held scrolls upon which a poet wrote,
Stories of love none ever even in imaginations dreamt,
Now as ashes floating on the oceans of emotions.
When metaphors became the only option to express,
Love deeply felt and from far away read,
The unreturned love deep inside her heart suppressed,
Oppressed herself into a doubting, spying melancholic.
Shallow dreams birthed out of a doubt-filled mind,
Mindless stories about a loveless man repeatedly told,
Ah’, what else you hear from those mindless wayfarers?
None will stay and with gossipers smiles, they will fade.
And alone hear you will the echoes of their curses,
When into oblivion they will fade and as mirages will appear,
Not for long as the power of the poetry of hearts will overpower,
Those echoes and will rhyme with the loving feelings of yours.
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