Eyes swept down a road this evening,
a bit farther than usual.
I could see the canopy,
of clouds, trees and people,
gliding, swaying and moving towards the past.
It seemed as if it were inviting me,
the sun a happier shade of orange at that end,
as if the past were full,
of only of the joys that I remembered,
and the forgotten never existed.
The wind too liked that direction,
for it carried my thoughts there.
It seemed perfect, that past of mine,
- a perfect story woven by an author of skill,
a tussle between tragic interludes and merrier moments.
A friendly tug pulled me back to the present,
and reminded me that my past in all of it's glory,
was nothing but a memory that I have,
and that road too, would take me somewhere in the future,
like all roads always do.
a bit farther than usual.
I could see the canopy,
gliding, swaying and moving towards the past.
It seemed as if it were inviting me,
the sun a happier shade of orange at that end,
as if the past were full,
of only of the joys that I remembered,
and the forgotten never existed.
The wind too liked that direction,
for it carried my thoughts there.
It seemed perfect, that past of mine,
- a perfect story woven by an author of skill,
a tussle between tragic interludes and merrier moments.
A friendly tug pulled me back to the present,
and reminded me that my past in all of it's glory,
was nothing but a memory that I have,
and that road too, would take me somewhere in the future,
like all roads always do.
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