WEDNESDAY

Sitting by the deserted aisle in Plunkett Square, she smiled , as the Sun set behind in restlessness. Her presence strikingly conspicuous. She knew not the dreadfulness of the world before her, but I believe she was afraid. She was very afraid. Too afraid to be conscious, so as to involuntarily dismiss it altogether. She slowly rose, with reluctance, and unaccustomed anticipation, as I could see. Maybe I chose to. 
The truth be told, everything else seems like a gigantic lie. But for some lies, you choose to believe in them. I did, for what seemed like an imaginary yet intuitive haven. Never considered the illusive nature, and that such a lie could ever knock the doors of possibility, became my fertile source of happiness. 

It is often in her absence, that I look outside. Not an absolute gaze at the dilapidated depot by the corner or the worn pigeon-nest on the cemented edge of my windowsill, but something farther. One can judge by the look in my eyes, the emotions of a hunter. A hunt too early in its time, farther in it's approach, though I know she is not coming back, not so soon. Nonetheless, I look outside. I seek what is no better than nothing. Waiting, hoping, for her allure is the most hauntingly beautiful thing, I have ever known.

A SILENT MEMORY

“Far amidst the lovelorn leas,

Or here by the silent seas,

In every nightingale’s tired song

That to me seems forever long,

Every smile, upon the crystal moon

Or the silken sunbeam at noon,

Violets smiling in the mossy vale

And tulips singing their daily tale

To you, they made me carry;

Now time seems only to tarry

Ever since, I stand amid the roar

Of your surf-tormented shore,

The trees have lost their rapture

And the sky now fails to capture,

The flame of dusk, the lusty light,

Unsmiling, does give in to night.

My hope has not flown away,

In just a night, or just a day,

You still lie, half hidden from the eye,

Bright as a star, shining in the sky."

And I rose, and walked from her grave

And stopped to see, if she should wave

What a difference, it would make to me

Though I knew she had ceased to be.

TWELFTH JULY

It was on the twelfth day of July,

Beneath a warm, indolent sky,

In the highlands, of stone and scree

I saw her, reserved and dreamy.

The wild indigo bowed , only to reveal

A faint countenance, under the Sun’s seal

Was it her indifference, or her sorrow,

That she held within, I didn’t know.

Yet she glistened, though flickering

Even the Sun seemed curtailing,

And the meadow, the bird and the hill

No different from me, stood utterly still.

For once, there seemed no fret, loss or pain

That surpassed this heavenly strain.

The light ceased; I could no longer get

The sublime glimpse, as the Sun now set

The darkness peered through my heart

And whispered to me, that I must part

For the blackish glow, and the faded sheen

Now ruled, and she, was not to be seen.

And with a heavy heart, from the plains

I trudged back, into familiar domains

Even today, when the Sun prepares to sleep,

I recount the glow, and walk to the door

Yearning in memory, I do weep

Long after she was seen no more.